


Happiness - It Comes On Unexpectedly

by BafflingAthalie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Auror Draco, Auror Harry, Auror Ron, Colleagues to Lovers, Completed, Crime-Solving, Deaths, Depression, Detective, Dinner Parties, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Finished, Friendship, Galas, Love, M/M, Marriage, Ministry Employee Hermione, PTSD, Pregnancy, Proposals, Recovery, Slow Burn, Therapy, Trauma, Weddings, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23829334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BafflingAthalie/pseuds/BafflingAthalie
Summary: Six years after the war, Auror and war hero Harry Potter sets out to solve the simple case of a missing woman, aided by his Auror partner Malfoy and his best friends Hermione and Ron. However, things are always less simple than they seem, and Harry tries to solve this increasingly complex case whilst falling in love and attending the dinner parties, galas, art auctions and weddings of some of his closest friends.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Comments: 39
Kudos: 164





	1. The beginning is always today

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my other, finished Drarry story: The Crack The Light Shines Through  
> Or my work in progress: Alone, In Rationed Light  
> Please comment to let me know what you like or don't like :)

“You’re late.” Malfoy’s voice was sharp and Harry winced as he closed the door of their shared office behind him. 

“Sorry, sorry, I overslept.” He replied, throwing himself into the uncomfortable chair behind his desk. He glared over at Malfoy, who lounged so casually that Harry thought he must have spelled his chair into shape somehow. 

“I had to give Savage our report by myself.” Malfoy scowled at Harry over his cup of coffee, who frowned back, guiltily remembering the memo on his calendar. 

“I said I was sorry!” He rolled his eyes. “Was she awful?” 

Both Harry and his partner shuddered at the thought of Dorothea Savage, who had been aptly named at birth – at perhaps seventy years old, she was the still-ruthless Head Auror that had first paired them up three years ago after several failed partnerships each. She seemed totally uncaring of Harry’s fame and Malfoy’s old reputation, and treated both of them with a barely concealed impatience for their friendly bickering and the rebellious streak that ran, mile-wide, through both of them. 

Malfoy sighed and didn’t bother replying, instead tossing over the file report, which had mercifully been green-stamped. 

“Thank Merlin, I wasn’t looking forward to writing it for a third time!” Harry relaxed into his chair and instantly regretted it, wincing away from a particularly sharp corner. He looked jealously again at Malfoy.

“You didn’t do any of the writing in the first place!” Malfoy sounded indignant, but he was smiling a little, and Harry stuck out his tongue, pleased. Harry prepared to retort something witty, but was interrupted by Ron’s arrival. 

“Hey, mate! Hey, Malfoy.” Ron greeted cheerily, breezing across the room to sit on Harry’s desk. 

“You’re awfully jolly for someone who threw up after one too many pints last night!”

“Hermione brewed me this amazing Pepper-up potion, worked wonders.” 

“You missed our meeting with Savage because you got drunk last night?” Malfoy sniffed disdainfully. 

“What can I say? It was Wine and Whiskey Wednesday.” Harry grinned lopsidedly back at him, only to be distracted by the arrival of a neatly folded memo. Malfoy snatched it out of the air before Harry could reach for it, quickly scanning it. 

“You’re definitely coming round later, right?” Ron asked Harry worriedly, who rolled his eyes and agreed that yes, he’d be there for dinner, as he had been for every Thursday since, well, forever.

“Alright, Weasley, time to bugger off now.” Malfoy’s voice was free from acidity, however, and he gave Ron a parting wave as he left. 

“What’s the case?” Harry asked eagerly, keen to take a break from the endless paperwork he had on his desk. Malfoy didn’t reply, instead reaching into a drawer and pulling out an old file, memo still clasped between his long fingers. Harry sighed impatiently and twitched the fingers of his right hand, which shot the memo across the room towards him, garnering him a frown from Malfoy. 

“Some American witch has been missing for three days now – Missing Persons sent over her file to us because she’s high profile and she worked with Dark objects sometimes. Want us to take a look.” Malfoy finally answered Harry even as he read the memo for himself. 

“Some American witch? God, don’t let Hermione hear you saying that! Cressida Boone is famous for her campaigns for magical creature rights in America, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I do read the papers, Potter.”

“What’s she doing over here, if she’s American?” 

“It doesn’t say. I guess we should go check out where she was staying, then.” Malfoy looked forlornly at his half-finished mug of coffee, and then stood, slinging on his cloak and sliding his wand into his sleeve. He tapped his feet impatiently as he waited for Harry to do the same, who quickly sent a memo to Savage about their field trip before joining Malfoy at the door. 

Harry tumbled out of the Floo first, still unsteady on his feet even after all these years, and grumbled to himself as Malfoy stepped out behind him, ever graceful. They’d arrived in a lovely little cottage on the edge of a seaside village in the north of England. Both wizards paused to wonder aloud what Cressida Boone had been doing, seemingly hiding away in a muggle village in another country, but neither had an answer. 

“Salazar, what’s with all the mess?” Malfoy gingerly picked his way across the room towards the table, followed by Harry, both of whom tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid stepping on any of the papers and books strewn across the floor. 

Harry and Malfoy took a seat at the table and began to rustle through the papers. Malfoy worked in silence, carefully taking notes with his left hand as he read, but Harry, as always, felt the silence closing in on him and instead twisted his hands in the air, charming a quill to take notes as he spoke aloud anything interesting that he read. 

The two wizards were still sat quietly, perhaps three or four hours later, when Harry’s stomach rumbled loudly, and Malfoy sighed, putting down his quill.

“That’s the third time, Potter.” 

“It’s not hurting you, is it, Malfoy? Then chill out.”

“It’s distracting. And annoying.” He added as an afterthought.

“Fine. I’ll go down into the village and get something to eat. Want anything?” Harry stood, heading towards the door. 

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea, we can have a look around. I’ll come with.” Malfoy followed, pulling on his cloak. 

Harry started to open the front door of the cottage, and then paused, looking down at himself. 

“Wait a second. We’re still wearing our robes.” Malfoy said at the same time, pulling out his wand. 

“I’ll do it. You know I’m better at transfiguration.” Harry held out his hand to stop him. He waved his hands in a complex pattern in the air, sending tiny ripples of sky-blue sparks outwards from his fingers. Both men looked down to see their robes replaced with dark jeans and a plain coloured t-shirt. 

“Stylish.” Malfoy smirked, and Harry rolled his eyes. 

“Have you ever been to a place like this before, Malfoy? This is what they’ll be wearing, not Armani or whatever other fancy shit you wear.” 

“Plus it’s easier to do common clothes than designer clothes.” Malfoy added, stepping neatly out of the way of Harry’s jokey kick as they closed the cottage door behind them and started the walk towards the village. 

The village was peaceful and picturesque, with little brick houses and tiny, winding lanes. Screaming seagulls flew in circles high above them and the salty scent of the sea filled the air. Harry and Malfoy chatted quietly as they walked, Harry cheerily pointing out an old sweet shop and declaring that before the case was over he’d buy one of everything in there. Malfoy laughed, as though he was joking, but Harry was serious – it had been a long time since he’d lived with the Dursleys, but he’d never quite gotten over that sickening feeling that he was missing out. 

“Aha! A bakery, perfect.” Harry led Malfoy into a small shop smelling strongly of fresh bread and sweet jam, where they were cheerily greeted by a large blonde woman smiling brightly from behind the counter. 

“Hello, hello! What would you like today?” 

“Just a moment, please, we’ll need to look at the menu first, if that’s alright.” 

She nodded and pushed two thick pieces of paper over the counter towards them. 

“Did I see you two coming down from that old cottage on the hill?” Without waiting for a reply, she continued. “We thought it was being rented by that lovely American woman, didn’t we, George?”

“Aye, we did. Very nice lady she is.” A lanky, dark haired man popped his head out from the kitchen to chime in. 

Malfoy was still distracted by the menu, and so Harry thought fast, recalling the picture of the almost middle-aged dark haired woman in the case file. 

“Yeah, she’s my cousin Cressida. We thought we’d come pay her a visit while she was in the country.” Harry smiled, and turned his eye to the menu. “I’d like a cheese and onion pasty, please.”

“I’ll have the same, thanks.” Malfoy added. 

“Alright, coming up! And your cousin will be wanting her ham and cheese toastie, will she?” 

“Uh, yes, please, that would be great.” Harry answered.

“That’ll be… seven fifty.” 

Harry handed over a tenner. 

“I don’t suppose Cressida mentioned what she’s doing here, did she? She’ll only tell us it’s a surprise, but, well, we like to be prepared for anything!” Malfoy was all smiles and sweetness, and Harry had to twist away to turn a snort into a fake sneeze at the sight of Malfoy’s bright, innocent smile. 

“Ah, like that, is she? Well, love, I don’t know anything about it, but I expect Suzanne next door will know, if you want to ask her. She’s not in today, though, so you’ll have to come down tomorrow if you’re still here.” 

“That’s great – we’ll be here for a week or two, I think.” Harry replied as George emerged from the kitchen with a steaming paper bag, which he handed over to Harry. 

“You tell Suzanne that Sue and George sent you and she’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Sue added as the two wizards headed towards the door. 

Back at the cottage, Harry returned their clothes to their natural state as Malfoy put their pasties on plates. He’d split the spare one in half without discussion, and Harry couldn’t help but smile. 

They ate as they discussed what they had each found so far – Harry had been going through some of her notes on her magical creature rights campaigns in America, which were very detailed but had nothing to do with her presence in England. Malfoy hadn’t had better luck – he’d found a stack of papers that seemed to be in code, but he was fairly sure they were about werewolf packs in Britain. 

There was a strange thumping sound in the next room and both men jumped up – Malfoy whipped his wand out of his sleeve holster and looked on curiously as Harry, panicked, double checked that his wand was still stuffed in his pocket under his robes. Both wizards approached the door and Harry stepped back as Malfoy carefully eased it open. Malfoy let out a loud laugh and Harry stuck his head into the room, coming face to face with an elderly grey cat that had clearly just knocked over a large stack of books. 

Harry returned to the table and his notes, only to notice that the light in the room had faded away as the sun slipped beneath the ocean. Harry suddenly swore, casting a tempus charm. 

“Shit, Malfoy, I’ve got to go or I’ll be late to dinner at Ron and Hermione’s.” He paused, and asked, as always, “Want to join?” 

Malfoy finished their weekly ritual by replying, as he always did, “Not tonight, Potter, but thanks.” 

He went on to say that he was intrigued by the code and would stay for a few more hours working on it. 

“Tell Granger I say hello.” He added as he returned to his papers.

Harry paused at the fireplace, looking back into the rapidly darkening room at Malfoy, sat alone at the table, and flicked his fingers, lighting the lamps in the corners of the room. Not waiting to see how Malfoy reacted, he stepped through the green fire. 

***

Harry stepped out of the green fire into the large living room of Ron and Hermione’s flat, greeted by the delicious smell of curry. He could hear Ron and Ginny chatting in the kitchen as they cooked, and sat on a large red sofa was Hermione and Luna, laughing merrily at something Luna had just finished saying.

“Hiya, Harry, good day at work?” Hermione smiled at him as he joined them on the sofa.

“Yeah, it was alright, I’ll tell you all later. What’s so funny?” 

“I was just telling Hermione about someone I worked on this morning.” Luna replied airily, beaming at Harry as she reached across Hermione to pat his leg in greeting. He grinned back. 

After the war, Luna had invented magical tattoos, and had also pioneered a new style of therapeutic healing, which incidentally often used her tattoos. Harry himself had three of her tattoos, and he knew Luna had gifted Hermione and Ron matching ones that glowed when they were together for their wedding present. Luna’s non-therapeutic tattoos were famous around the world, and she always had an entertaining story about her work. 

“Oh yeah, what happened?” Harry looked forward to every story she told. 

“Well, a young French witch asked for a tattoo of Ginny blowing her a kiss on her shoulder. I didn’t mind, of course, so I agreed. She didn’t seem to realise anything until I was half-way done and she saw a photo of us kissing on my wall!” 

“Apparently she was so embarrassed she ran out before Luna could finish her tattoo!” Ginny grinned as she entered the room, still dressed in her Holyhead Harpies Chaser uniform. Ginny had spent two years as a reserve with the Wimbourne Wasps before a particularly successful game had garnered her a trial with the Holyhead Harpies. Only five years after leaving Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley was one of the Chasers with the Holyhead Harpies, and she was very popular with the fans. 

Harry chuckled as Ginny leant down to give Harry a tight hug, glad to see her. Ginny was often away travelling with the Harpies, and recently he’d only been seeing her about once a month. Luna, too, had been away a lot – she’d recently started travelled with Ginny, using the opportunity to give her tattoos to people across the world. He was glad to see both of them. 

“Oi, Ginny, get back in here, we’re not done!” Ron bellowed from the kitchen. “Actually, I might need someone else too.” 

Ginny darted back into the kitchen, followed by Luna; Hermione, who was universally recognized as terrible at cooking, stayed where she was. 

“Malfoy said to say hi.” Harry said to Hermione, relaxing into the comfortable sofa, looking pensive. Hermione didn’t reply, waiting for him to say whatever it was she knew he was thinking about. 

“There was a moment today, in the field, where we heard a noise.” He paused. “I think he’s going to ask me about why I use wandless magic.” Hermione nodded in understanding. 

After the war, Harry had refused to use his wand in public ever again, and had gone to great lengths to ensure he was more than proficient in wandless magic. Although many people had hazarded guesses at why in the six years since the war (the Daily Prophet had called him an ‘arrogant show off’, which had sent Ginny into a blind rage), only Ron and Hermione knew the truth – Harry was terrified of being disarmed and relinquishing the Elder Wand to anyone who could be dangerous. 

“Well, do you think it might be time to tell him? I mean, you’ve worked with him for three years now, surely you can trust him.”

“It’s not about trusting him. I’d trust him with my life – I do every time we’re out on a mission. I just…don’t want to talk about it.” He paused, and Hermione waited patiently. She was used to his way of speaking about personal things – slowly, and painfully, but always relieved afterwards.

“I like that he doesn’t know about all that mess. You and Ron are the only people who know really about the Deathly Hallows and the Horcruxes. I don’t know if I’m ready for anyone else to know. I like that he knows the good bits of me, and not the bad.” 

“Harry, those bits aren’t bad. They might be messy, but they’re not bad - everything you did, and still do, is for the good of other people. Don’t you want him to know that?” 

Harry wasn’t convinced – his working relationship with Malfoy was pleasant and even friendly – he thought that bringing up memories of the war would only confuse things. 

“Besides, you’d only have to tell him about the Elder Wand and the other Hallows, you wouldn’t have to mention the Horcruxes.”

“When’d you get so wise?” Harry teased, smiling again. 

“I’ve always been wise, Harry!” Hermione replied as Ron, Ginny and Luna burst into the room carrying pots and pans of curry and rice and naan bread. Everyone settled around the table and started to eat, talking loudly and merrily. 

Ginny produced a bottle of white wine and began pouring for everyone. 

“None for me, please, Ginny.” Hermione said, placing her hand over the top of her wine glass. She was flushing slightly, and smiling brightly. Ginny continued pouring the glasses obliviously, but Harry looked suspiciously from Hermione’s smiling face to Ron’s red ears and gasped loudly. 

“Hang on…are you…?” 

“Yes! I’m pregnant!” Hermione cried out, reaching out to hold Ron’s hand. Everyone erupted into cheers, crowding round the couple for a group hug. Harry patted Ron on the back, who looked absolutely delighted, and kissed Hermione on the cheek. In the confusion Luna ended up patting Harry’s unruly hair, although she didn’t seem to notice. There was a lot of talking at once, until Hermione clapped her hands and everyone settled back down into their seats and continued eating. 

“Have you thought about names yet, Hermione?” Ginny asked. 

“Well, we don’t know the gender yet, but for a girl, we were thinking of Roseanne Molly Granger-Weasley, after our mothers.” 

“Goodness, that’s a lovely mouthful, isn’t it?” Luna said chirpily and Hermione laughed. 

“And for a boy, well, we wanted to go with Harry Frederick Granger-Weasley, if that’s alright with you?” Ron asked, looking towards Harry, who felt his eyes fill with tears. 

“Are you serious?” He asked, feeling full of emotion. 

“Of course! We love you, Harry, and we couldn’t think of a better namesake.” Hermione replied, smiling at him.

“You’re going to be brilliant parents.” He said sincerely, and Ginny and Luna were quick to agree. 

The rest of the evening was joyful as they celebrated well into the night.


	2. All your tomorrows start here

Harry returned to Cressida’s cottage early the next morning with a dreadful hangover, expecting to find an empty cottage he could recover in. Instead, he found a sleeping Malfoy slumped over the table, surrounded by papers. Surprised, he conjured a woollen blanket and laid it gently over him, before writing a note telling Malfoy he’d gone to the village for food from Sue and information from Suzanne, and he was welcome to join when he woke up.

Having come dressed in muggle clothes this time, he set off towards the village, bracing himself against the chilled spring winds. He thought about casting a warming charm, but was unwilling to use magic when he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be noticed. 

“Hi, love, had a rough night, did you?” Sue greeted him with a smile, telling her husband to make a full English breakfast while she made him a cup of tea. “Where’s your friend?” 

“Oh, he’s still asleep.” He tucked into the food happily, feeling better with each mouthful. “I thought I’d go see Suzanne today, is she in?”

“Well, it’s your lucky day, pet, she’s due in for breakfast in about ten minutes, if you can wait that long.” 

“Would it be possible for you to make another one of these as a takeaway? And some tea if you can? I probably shouldn’t go back to the cottage without food!”

“Sure, I’ll get George to make another large one.”

Harry sat silently eating his breakfast for some time, thinking of Hermione and Ron – he’d been delighted when they’d gotten married, and he was just as delighted now that they were expecting. But he couldn’t help feeling down in some way – they were becoming parents, and he was still living the same life he’d been living for years. He wondered if he would spend the rest of his life as a single, lonely man who hunted bad people for a living. He hadn’t dated anyone seriously since he and Ginny had broken up five years ago – she’d wanted to start her career without any distractions or complications, and he had no longer been in love with her, so it had been an easy break up. And now he wondered if it had been a mistake to reject the various offers he’d had since then. 

The sound of the door opening crashed him out of his thoughts and he looked up to see a tall elderly woman bustle into the shop and head to the counter. A few minutes, she sat at Harry’s table, opposite him, and introduced herself as Suzanne. She was the village librarian, and she’d met Cressida several times, apparently. 

“Very polite, for an American, she is. Said she’s researching something in the area, needed access to books and the internet.” 

“Did she say what she’s researching? We’re all pretty keen to find out before we get the shock of a lifetime.” Harry tried up to play the role of friendly younger cousin who was keen to stop his older cousin getting into trouble, but he was distracted by the arrival of Malfoy. Malfoy looked rugged and tired, unlike his usual poised self, and Harry supposed it was because of his uncomfortable sleeping arrangements the night before. 

“I didn’t need the blanket, you know.” He said sourly as he sat down beside Harry, looking surprised as Sue served up a large English breakfast and a tea almost immediately. Harry thanked her, handing her a tenner and telling her to keep the change. 

“Well, you looked cold.” Harry said simply, passing Malfoy the salt and pepper. Harry then automatically dropped a sugar cube in Malfoy’s tea before pushing it towards him. Harry often made Malfoy’s tea and coffee at work, and he knew how he took it.

“Oh, aren’t you two a picture! What a lovely couple you make.” Suzanne seemed delighted by this scene, and Harry blushed, about to set her straight.

“We’re partners.” Malfoy said matter-of-factly, not looking up from the meal he was rapidly devouring.

“We’re not…we’re work partners. We’re friends.” Harry explained, still flushed in embarrassment.

“Don’t you worry, we’re very understanding here; we get all sorts visiting.” Suzanne smiled at him and winked. Harry decided not to cause a fuss by contradicting her and instead asked about Cressida again. 

“Ah, yes. She was researching a couple of things, if I remember correctly. This was a few weeks ago, love, and my memory’s not what it was.” Suzanne shook her head sadly before continuing. “She mentioned wolves, and I said to her, no wolves in this part of the world, pet, but I’m not sure she listened. And then she wanted to know about crimes in the area.” 

Harry was rapidly trying to work out the correlation between wolves and murders when Malfoy spoke up. 

“Well, that sounds like your cousin Cressida, doesn’t it? Trying to write a book again, I suppose.” 

Harry hurriedly agreed and Suzanne left the table, collecting her breakfast from Sue and winking once more at Harry as the door closed behind her. It didn’t take long for Harry and Malfoy to finish eating and return to the cottage, having promised to pass on Sue’s well wishing to Cressida, who Harry had decided wasn’t feeling well and was taking a few days to rest up. 

Before Harry could say anything as they sat down, Malfoy burst out. 

“I cracked her code! Took me most of the night, but I worked out a spell that would decipher it.” He pushed a stack of paper towards Harry and waved his wand, muttering under his breath. As Harry watched, the letters and words rearranged themselves on paper. It reminded him vaguely of something Ron had said once, about how letters never seemed to stay in the right places when he was trying to read. He wondered if this spell could be adapted to help him.

Once the words were finished moving, both wizards could clearly see she’d been writing about werewolves. 

“There must be a pack based somewhere around here.” Harry thought aloud. 

“Yes, but not just that. Look at this bit – she says she thinks werewolves are being murdered.” Malfoy replied. “Actually, she calls them people with lycanthropy, which I think is a term she’s trying to get legalised, but that’s beside the point.” 

Harry rustled around in the papers for a few moments, and emerged with a pile of newspaper clippings triumphantly.

“I saw these yesterday, but I didn’t realise they might be important.” 

He rustled some more, and produced a large map of northern England.

“Right, read out the dates and places of each murder or other crime mentioned, and I’ll write it on here.” 

Malfoy dutifully read and Harry used his right index finger to mark a shimmering black dot next to each place, with the date printed beside. Malfoy watched curiously, but to Harry’s relief didn’t ask anything, instead continuing to read out the dates and places. 

The end result was a sort of lopsided circle around several towns and villages and a small forest. 

“I guess we’ve worked out roughly where the pack is, then.” Harry said, looking down at the map. He then turned to the newspaper clippings Malfoy was flicking through. 

“There are fifteen clippings here. Ten of them are about murders, three are about muggings with serious injuries and these last two are…hmm. They’re about animal attacks, which I guess is relevant to the werewolf pack’s activites, rather than the crimes committed against them.” Malfoy was very matter of fact – it was one of his strongest talents in this job, Harry thought, comparing it to his own habit to connect emotionally to anything possible. It was part of the reason they worked so well together.

“So, we’ve worked out what Cressida was doing here – researching the murders of supposed werewolves.” 

There was a pause. 

“You know what we have to do next, don’t you?” Harry didn’t say it like a question, but Malfoy answered anyway. 

“We have to tell Granger.” 

Hermione, after returning to Hogwarts for her NEWTS, had joined the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, working in the ‘Being’ sub-department, which handled goblins, house-elves and werewolves. She’d worked in the Department for two years before being promoted to Head of the Magical Creatures Department. She’d revolutionised the way the magical community treated house-elves, and was now working to do the same for werewolves. This was exactly the sort of thing she dealt with. 

Harry groaned – he could only imagine the fervour and intensity she would bring to this case, and while he loved her to bits, he didn’t think he could handle working so closely with her on it for long. 

“God, I really don’t want to have to tell her this…but I don’t think we have a choice.” 

Harry quickly wrote out a note on some scrap paper and tossed it into the green fires of the Floo, knowing Hermione would come when she could. 

Less than half an hour had passed when Hermione came tumbling through the fireplace, bright eyes framed by wild hair and cheeks stained with ink. 

“Harry! What’s wrong?” She cried, rushing over to Harry, who looked, bewildered, at Malfoy. 

“Nothing, ‘Mione. Didn’t you read my note?” 

“No, I wasn’t in the office but Ron was there dropping off my lunch, he told me there was an emergency?” Hermione, breathless, dropped into a small armchair to catch her breath. Harry saw what had happened – Ron had played a prank on his poor unsuspecting wife. 

“Dickhead! There’s no emergency, we’ve got a case we think you’ll want to be involved with.” Harry patted the top of her head awkwardly as she panted, and she snorted slightly. 

“What a fool my husband is.” She rolled her eyes and relaxed slightly, taking the case file the still-silent Malfoy handed to her. Skim-reading it, she held out her hand to Malfoy for the rest of the papers he was holding, which she read after. Finally she looked up with a grave face. 

“You’re right, Harry – I do want to be involved. This seems rather serious.” She flicked through some of the papers, double checking something, and then peered over at the map, which Harry had left on the table, still shimmering with magic markings. 

“I’ll have to double check, but I believe your map coincides with the territorial markings of the Northumberland pack, although there hasn’t been communication with them since before Voldemort’s time – Lupin couldn’t get in contact with them when he was underground.” 

Both Harry and Malfoy started uncomfortably as Hermione spoke – Harry at Hermione’s mention of Remus Lupin, which brought a lump to his throat, and Malfoy at her casual use of Voldemort’s name. They eyed each other warily for a moment, half expecting the other to call them out, and then relaxed when neither said a word. Hermione, oblivious, continued talking.

“I might ask Andromeda for Lupin’s journals while he was underground – I know she kept them for Teddy, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind us taking a look before then. And I think it might be smart if you try to get into contact with them, Harry, Malfoy.” Hermione paused and looked a little awkward. “Because there hasn’t been contact since before Voldemort, we don’t know what their alliances are – so you should both go.”

“So Potter gets to be a saint and I’m just a faithful Death Eater?” Malfoy’s voice was cold and steely, and Hermione almost flinched. 

“No, Malfoy. You can pretend you aren’t reformed if you have to in order to save your lives. Harry doesn’t have that option.” Hermione’s voice brooked no arguments, and Malfoy, having argued with her in the past, obviously reaslied he wasn’t going to win this one. 

“Fine.” He snapped. “I’ll be a monster if need be. How should we contact them?”

“I’m not sure. I can do some research but I don’t think Lupin ever wrote about that…” 

Harry interrupted her. 

“I can find out.” He caught Hermione’s eye. She stopped short, immediately paler, hesitant, and then, slowly, nodded. Malfoy looked suspiciously at Harry over Hermione’s head.

“How are you going to research something that Granger can’t?” 

“I have my contacts.” Harry replied, turning away and praying Hermione, looking pleased at Malfoy’s roundabout praise, didn’t say anything. “I am a saint, after all.” He added sarcastically, and Malfoy laughed a little, recognising and appreciating his attempt to return to comfortable conversation. 

After a few more minutes of discussing details, Hermione left, saying she’d thought of a perfect prank to get back at Ron, and Harry left quickly after. Unlike the day before, though, he instead stepped straight into his own two-bedroom flat in central London. He, Ron and Hermione had lived together in Grimmauld Place for two years after the war, until they’d gotten married and moved out. Harry, unwilling to live there alone, had also moved out, into his current flat. 

He’d had four years to make it homely, and he loved it – there was no true colour scheme, no themes, but everything in it was his. He’d packed it full of souvenirs he’d collected on his travels – porcelain figures, colourful rugs, ornate lamps, ancient jewellery and much more. In the first few years after they’d won the war, he’d been invited to meet key figures from every Ministry of Magic across the world, and he’d delighted in the freedom – he’d come home from every trip with a souvenir for each of his friends, and three more for himself. As heir to the Potter and Black fortunes, and with his Auror salary, he had more than enough money, and he knew it was terribly materialistic to want things, but when he stood in the doorway of his flat and saw what was entirely his own, he almost forgot about the cupboard under the stairs.

But when he stepped through the flames this time, he didn’t look at what surrounded him, instead walking through the living room and kitchen into the smaller bedroom at the back. He knelt under his bed and pulled out a small cardboard box. He pulled it onto his lap and whispered five words, followed by a complex pattern traced in the air by both his wand and his left hand. Spell disarmed, he carefully he opened the box and pulled what looked to be an ordinary ring box. Whispering another four words, temporarily disarming a nasty curse, he pulled out the small, shining black Resurrection stone. 

He’d used the stone twice since his conversation with his parents and the rest of his family in the Forbidden Forest, and each time he swore he’d never use it again. Both Ron and Hermione had been willingly sworn to secrecy, vowing never to tell an outsider that Harry had kept the three Deathly Hallows, and neither knew where it was hidden – Harry had cast a Fidelius Charm and had become the Secret Keeper to the location. It had taken weeks for them to come to the decision unanimously - Harry had been adamant he didn’t want them, but Ron, and then Hermione, had convinced him he was the only hope of ensuring they stayed safe and secret.

He held the stone gingerly, as though it might explode, and turned it over three times in his palm. A shadow appeared before him, slowly transforming into the grey wispy figure of Remus Lupin. 

“Hello, Harry.” 

“Hello, Professor. Sorry to bring you back, but I have a question.” 

“Of course – ask anything you want. But can I ask about Teddy, first?” 

“Teddy’s great - he’s six now. He looks a lot more like you, but he likes to dye his hair crazy colours like Tonks did. He’s very brave, and curious, and he’s so full of love. You’d be proud of him, Remus. You both would.” 

It was hard for Harry to see Lupin’s pale, scarred face – it was always hard for him to bring someone back and know it was temporary, which was why he only used the stone for work, and only when it was absolutely necessary. The first time had been Sirius – Harry had needed information about a criminal blood-purist relative of his, and he’d cried for hours after saying goodbye. The second time Harry had brought back Dumbledore to ask about a highly secret organisation of Dark witches, and it had been very hard for Harry to put away the stone. 

“I’m proud of you too, Harry, we all are. You’ve done great things, and become a brilliant man.” 

Harry swallowed loudly, and shook his head slightly, trying to dim the ringing in his ears that always came with using the stone.

“How did you contact the werewolf packs when you were underground, Lupin? We need to get in contact with the Northumberland pack.”

Lupin frowned. 

“That’s very unwise. Their alpha is a nasty piece of work. But you wouldn’t ask if you had any other options, I’m sure, so I’ll tell you if you promise to be careful.”

Harry promised, and Lupin told him. When he was finished, he returned the stone to its box and activated the charms and curses that protected it. Then he went to the kitchen and cooked his dinner, using spices from Mexico he’d collected a few years ago on a trip with Neville, all the while trying and failing to forget the little black stone hidden under his bed.


	3. The strength of truth

Several days later Harry and Malfoy sat around Cressida’s little table, reading and rereading the notes on werewolf etiquette that Hermione had sent through. Malfoy had been quieter than usual, and Harry knew what was coming.

“This seems very complicated. We never had to do any of this with Lupin.” Harry complained. 

“Obviously not, Potter – he chose to be a wizard first and a werewolf second. These werewolves willingly live in the wild, as a pack… some of them don’t even have wands.” Malfoy replied, head tilted slightly as he watched Harry, clearly tired of biting his tongue. Harry could feel the heat of his stare and was psyching himself up to explain to Malfoy why he no longer used a wand. 

“Will you be bringing your wand, Potter? Do you even have a wand anymore?” 

Slowly, cautiously, hoping and praying and fearing what might happen next, Harry pulled out the Elder wand from his sleeve holster and placed it on the table. Next to it, he placed his own wand from Ollivander. Malfoy looked almost shocked – wizards used only one wand, unless it was broken or lost in combat. Harry waited for Malfoy’s questions as they stared down at the wands.

“That’s the wand he used in the final battle, isn’t it?” 

Harry didn’t need clarification on who Malfoy meant, and he didn’t ask Malfoy to say his true name, either.

“Yes. Do you remember what I told him, that night?” 

“I don’t think I could ever forget a single moment of that night. Which bit do you mean?” 

“I talked about the Elder Wand. I told him it was mine.”

“You told him it was mine, actually, and that you’d won it off me.” He paused. “Is that it?” He gestured to it, laying harmlessly on the table, looking so unlike the weapon of war and death and madness that it was. 

Harry was surprised. 

“You know what the Elder Wand is?” 

“Of course I do, Potter. My nannies used to read the tale of the Deathly Hallows to me when I was a child. I just always assumed it was a bedtime story, a ghost story of sorts.” 

Harry nodded, no longer surprised, now cautious. He wondered how much to tell Malfoy – his knowledge on the subject was more considerable than he had realised – he could piece together the details if Harry wasn’t careful. And he had to be careful – every single day, every single night. 

“Well, it’s mine. It has been for years, since the before the battle.” Harry hesitated, tried to speak, failed. He tried again. 

“I’m the master of the Elder Wand.” He didn’t know what else to say – how to explain the terror he felt every single day that he’d get disarmed, that he would condemn the world by being weak; how to describe his nightmares about seeing someone use the Wand to carry out unspeakable acts. 

“You don’t want to be disarmed.” Malfoy realised, eyes widening as he looked between Harry’s pained face and the wands on the table. Harry hadn’t realised it, but his hand had crept across the table to lay protectively over the Elder Wand, and he almost gagged – the whispering of the Elder wand rang through his mind all the time, even sang in his dreams. It took every ounce of his self-control not to succumb, not to finally wield it. He lived in perpetual fear that one day, he’d fail.

“I can’t be disarmed.” Harry’s throat was dry, his heart was racing. What happened next? It shamed him to think it, but Malfoy could kill him and steal it now, and become something greater and worse than Voldemort ever was. Harry stumbled on. 

“It’s the most powerful wand ever created. It could make a bad wizard far, far worse, and it could make even a good person bad. If I don’t use it, no-one can.” 

Malfoy nodded, thinking. He didn’t speak for a long time. 

“Does that mean the rest of the Deathly Hallows are real?” 

“Yeah. I’ve got the Invisibility Cloak, too. It’s a family heirloom, actually.” This was safer ground – people didn’t get killed over cloaks, did they? Even one-of-a-kind, magic ones, surely. 

“And the Resurrection Stone?” God, Malfoy was shrewd – he’d noticed Harry’s omission. Harry panicked, shrugging casually as if to say ‘no clue, not a clue about that one, no ideas here’. Malfoy bought it, or at least decided not to push someone who looked like they might be sick at any moment. It struck Harry as bizarre he was so worried about someone finding out he had the least useful of the three, but it was the only one that couldn’t be connected to him, and he wanted to keep it that way.

“So what happens if someone somehow claims all three?” Malfoy mused, fascinated. He didn’t seem concerned that Harry had kept this secret for all three years of their partnership so far, or perhaps he was going to pounce once he’d learnt all he could. 

“I don’t know.” It was true – despite owning all three, by blood, by law and by war, Harry didn’t know what it meant for him. “They become the Master of Death, I guess. That’s what the story says, anyway.” 

Suddenly, as though startled out of a daydream, Malfoy turned his cool gaze to Harry. 

“Why have you never told me this before?” Harry had expected him to be angry, but that didn’t seem to be right – he seemed more hurt. 

“No-one knows. Well, Ron and Hermione, obviously, but no-one else knows. People probably think I was mad, talking about a children’s story to a murderous megalomaniac. No-one ever asked, and I never told.” 

Malfoy stared at him. 

“You mean all those times people called you an arrogant show-off, or a stuck-up wannabe superman, you just put up with it?” 

“Well, slandering me is nothing new, is it?” Harry replied bitterly, recalling every terrible thing the Daily Prophet had ever printed, remembering all the hate mail he’d received after the Triwizard Tournament. 

“So you didn’t explain why you were going wandless?” 

“No. There will always be someone like Voldemort or Grindelwald, who want more and will do anything to get it. I have to stop them – I have to protect it.” Harry’s voice broke, and he turned away, embarrassed to cry in front of Malfoy. 

“Merlin, even now, you’re a bloody martyr, aren’t you, Potter?” But Malfoy’s voice wasn’t condescending or cruel – he sounded almost proud, or at least mildly impressed. 

“Should you be carrying it around with you, though?” He sounded slightly worried now, as though he had suddenly been made aware he had a target stuck to his back. Harry knew the feeling. 

“Hermione and I created a spell – at the first sign of trouble, one word and it’ll be sent to a safe location. It won’t want to go, but it will.” 

If Malfoy was concerned by Harry’s implication that the Elder Wand could want things, he didn’t say, instead choosing to return to their notes on werewolf etiquette. Harry carefully stowed away his wands and breathed a deep sigh of relief. 

*** 

It was only after a long day of research with Malfoy that Harry stepped back into his flat and immediately tensed at sounds of movement come from further in his flat. Thinking of the box hidden under his bed and the wand stuffed unceremoniously into his pocket, he took a deep breath and stormed into the kitchen, hands glowing red, ready with a curse, only to come face to face with Neville Longbottom. 

“Bloody hell, Neville, I thought you were coming tomorrow? You scared the shit out of me!” Harry cried, feeling embarrassed and relieved as the red glare around his fists quickly faded. Neville, taller and broader than Harry now, blushed wine-red, seemingly unaware of how lethal Harry’s curse would have been, or even that he’d been about to cast one at all. 

“Sorry, Harry. The International Magical Flower and Fauna convention ended a day early and I had nowhere else to go till the weekend.” 

Harry relaxed against the small kitchen table and smiled. Since moving in, he’d given up his second bedroom as a guest room for any friend who might need a place to stay in London – Neville, who travelled almost constantly when he wasn’t working at Hogwarts as Herbology Professor, didn’t rent in London and therefore was Harry’s most frequent temporary flatmate. 

“That’s alright, mate, you just startled me a bit. Are you cooking something?” Harry suddenly realised that Neville was clutching a spatula and was wearing Harry’s goofy cooking apron, which was covered with cartoon foods saying things like “It’s a bit chilli in here” and “lettuce do this!”. It had been a Christmas gift from Luna the year before, along with a matching object cartoon one.

“Yeah, I thought I’d surprise you by making pasta from scratch, but I’m not sure I’m doing it right!” Neville gestured to the several pots and pans that surrounded him, and Harry chuckled. Harry had been giving Neville muggle cooking lessons for roughly two years, and Neville was as slow a learner as he had been at Potions. But Harry was a patient teacher, and Neville was more than eager to learn, and so it was an enjoyable experience for them both. 

“Right, well, let’s see what we can do.” Harry rolled up his sleeves and snagged the second apron from behind the kitchen door. As he carefully instructed Neville on what to do, they caught up on each other’s news from the last few months, from travelling to work to friends, eventually landing on the topic of dating. 

“So you’re not dating that French witch anymore?” 

“Nah, she wanted something too long term, I’m seeing someone called Calliope now, she’s a model for Gladrags.” 

Harry smiled and rolled his eyes – in the six years since the war had ended Neville had dated a surprisingly large number of attractive, successful witches from around the world – he chalked his success in the romance area up to karma and his early lack of luck, whereas Harry and his other friends insisted it was because he’d gotten, in Ginny’s words, ‘hot and hunky, with a healthy helping of hero’. 

“What about you, Harry, seeing anyone yet?”

“Nah, not at the moment. Connor Johnson from the Falmouth Falcons asked me out last month, but he’s not really my type.” 

“If he’s not your type who the hell is? I can’t think of a more godlike man in existence, Harry, you should get on that.” Neville nudged Harry, winking.

“He’s too…flashy for me. Besides, I can’t date a professional Quidditch player, can I? They’d inevitably come up against Ginny, and obviously I support her. She’d thrash them on the pitch and they’d never forgive me.” Harry joked, turning his attention to the pan of boiling water and home-made spaghetti in front of him. Neville quickly sobered up and watched Harry’s actions. 

Once they’d eaten their fill, and drank an entire bottle of wine between them, they slumped back on the sofa, feeling lethargic, until Harry suddenly had an idea.

“Hey, why don’t we get Ron round here? It’s been ages since our last bloke’s night!” 

Neville cheered and sent off a messily-written note into the flames, and moments later Ron appeared in the living room. 

“Cheers, lads, Hermione’s working late again tonight and I was getting pretty bored at home!”

Ron joined them on the sofa, holding out a full bottle of wine, much to Neville’s delight. Neville hiccupped and made a blind swing for it, and Ron chortled, telling him he’d never been able to hold his alcohol well. Harry switched his TV on, to the glee of both Ron and Neville, and they started to watch a game of football, each taking a swig when they didn’t understand the game. It wasn’t long before they were totally hammered – Ron curled on the floor hugging a pillow, Neville still wearing his cooking apron and Harry’s glasses somewhere in his lap, hair stuck up straight. 

“Look at us, look at us…who’d have thunk we’d end up here?” Neville slurred. “I’m a ladies’ man! I’m popular with the ladies! And Ron, wow, you’re a married man! And you’re about to be a dad!” 

Ron cheered, throwing the pillow in the air, which hit Harry firmly in the face, who, laughing, cried out “Oi!” 

“And Harry, mate, you’re the most eligible bachelor in the country! No, in the whole world!” Ron patted Harry’s leg. There was no answer from Harry or Neville, and Ron sat up to see both of them snoring. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, placed two small vials of Hermione’s hangover potion on the side table and stumbled through the fireplace with a final “Byeeeee”.


	4. Trust starts with truth

It wasn’t until Wednesday morning, two days later, that Hermione signed off on their excursion to find the Northumberland pack. She’d spent that time communicating with werewolf representatives and ensuring Harry and Malfoy would cause no harm or offence, and their time had been split between obsessively learning werewolf etiquette and learning new defensive spells. Hermione had quizzed them, much to their dismay, but had been satisfied they’d behave appropriately. 

“Alright, boys, this is very important. You’ll have to act as diplomats first, Aurors second. Please remember that.” She implored both of them as they stood in in front of her dressed in formal black robes in Cressida’s cottage. 

“Don’t worry, Hermione, we know what to do.” 

“And even more important – you must not get offended by anything they say. They haven’t had contact with wizards in several decades, and we don’t know how receptive they’ll be.” Although she’d swear otherwise, all three adults knew she was looking at Malfoy.

Malfoy reassured her they’d be calm and collected, and they turned to apparate to outside the forest. 

“Please, be careful.” She added just as they turned on the spot and vanished, leaving her alone in the silence of the cottage. 

***

Harry and Malfoy appeared on the edge of a large wooded area. Although it was early morning where they stood, further in between the trees it appeared to be twilight, and Harry shivered automatically. Malfoy looked over at Harry, mouth slightly open as though he planned to say something, before he turned and strode into the forest. Harry quickly cast a location spell and, following him, adjusted their course slightly – Hermione had told them it was likely the pack would reside in the centre of the forest, but that they should approach from the west. 

After only an hour of walking, Malfoy stopped suddenly, face paler than usual. 

“Did you hear that?” 

“Scared, Malfoy?” 

They’d had this jokey conversation many times throughout their years working together, and always the other person replied “You wish”, but this time, Malfoy just looked at Harry, eyes wide open. Harry, surprised, stared back. It occurred to him for the first time that he should probably be scared, or at least cautious, but he wasn’t. He was, at the most, nervous. He felt the burn of the Elder Wand in his pocket, and heard its whisper, and shuddered to realise it may be affecting him more than he thought.

Harry was about to speak when there was a growl behind them. Both men spun around, but were careful not to raise their wands or their hands, as Hermione had instructed them. They came face to face with a naked bearded man, at least six feet tall, towering over them. His body was streaked with mud and his nails were long and yellow. 

The man growled again, and then coughed, seemingly trying to clear his throat. 

“What are you doing in our forest?” He snarled. Harry frantically thought back through everything he’d learnt, but Malfoy answered first, voice trembling ever so slightly. 

“We humbly ask for safe passage through your territory and beg an audience with your pack leader.” 

The man swung his head towards Malfoy and sniffed.

“Dark magic…but faded. You were not a true believer.” He paused. “I see you, boy.”

Malfoy stiffened, and Harry stepped closer towards him. The man turned his dark eyes towards Harry. 

“You reek of death, boy. What business do you have with our leader?” 

Harry flinched. Malfoy looked curiously over at him.

“I think this is news he should hear of first, if that is acceptable to you.”

The man growled, and nodded. Without saying anything, he fell to all fours and loped off into the trees. Malfoy and Harry exchanged a panicked glance and jogged after him. 

They quickly came to a large clearing with roughly ten tents in a circle. Harry was surprised to see tents, having half-expected them to sleep in holes in the earth or something, but he quickly felt shamed at thinking of them as animals. Their guide led them to an older man with long, tangled hair that was dark with dirt and grease. His nails, too, were long, but they were sharpened, and Harry was uncomfortably reminded of Fenrir Greyback and poor Lavender’s face, neck and shoulders. She’d almost died after the final battle, but instead she’d lived, only to become a werewolf. She was part of the reason Hermione was so adamant that werewolves be treated as people.

The two men didn’t say anything to each other, instead communicating through a series of grunts and movements. Their guide loped off and the new man knelt on the floor, gesturing for Harry and Malfoy to do the same. They followed his actions immediately, waiting for him to speak first, as custom dictated. The tone of this meeting would be set by his first speech.

“What are two young wizards doing in our territory?” His voice was low and gravelly but the men were relieved he spoke without formality. Harry and Malfoy glanced at each other, and Malfoy dipped his head, allowing Harry to answer. 

“We’re here because we heard about a series of murders in the area.” 

The man interrupted, face melting into barely controlled rage. Malfoy flinched.

“And you dare to blame us?” 

“No, no! We think the victims are werewolves. Or, at least, Cressida Boone does.” 

The man stared. 

“You came because you believe many of my pack have died?” His voice was emotionless and his face was blank – Harry couldn’t decipher his thoughts, but he thought he better not lie. 

“Well, no. We didn’t know about it, but Cressida Boone did, and she’s gone missing.” 

The man was silent, observing, for a long time. 

“My name is Scratch. I am the Alpha of this pack. You are correct – ten of my pack have gone missing, only to turn up dead. We do not know who causes such offenses.” 

Harry was both relieved and disappointed – relieved that they hadn’t ventured deep into rogue werewolf territory for nothing, but still deeply disappointed that Hermione’s work with and for werewolves had yet to be effective in the general population. 

“Have you heard of Cressida Boone?” Harry asked. It was a risky question, and Malfoy’s glare showed he thought so too, but he didn’t say anything, perhaps still shaken by the guide’s keen attention to his Dark Mark. His face was paler than usual, and he was breathing deeply – Harry could see his chest moving from where he sat.

“No. But I know of you, boy. Returned from death itself. The stench clings to you. And beneath that, I smell your burning power.” 

Harry startled, uncomfortable. He resisted the urge to sniff for this apparent stench, instead focusing on dampening the fire inside of him. Ginny had once mentioned that his magic felt like fire when it spilled over, and he’d been self-conscious ever since. 

“And you. I smell the Dark magic on your skin.” He turned to Malfoy, who paled. “But it is weak. It is dying. You are stronger.” 

There was a silence. None of Hermione’s notes had instructed them what to do when offered unsettlingly canny observations about themselves. Finally, Malfoy spoke, apparently having got over his fear. 

“Cressida Boone believed you were being murdered, and nobody was noticing. But last week she went missing.”

“What does that have to do with us? We will solve our problems as we always have – by ourselves.” 

“I don’t mean to offend, but you have been unsuccessful so far. We ask your permission to carry on her investigation – to find and bring to justice the perpetrator of these crimes.”

“You could have done that without involving us.” 

Malfoy paused, suddenly unsure. Harry continued.

“We believe that we will have more success if we work together. We work for the Ministry and…” 

Scratch stood with a huge growl. 

“Wait!” Harry stood too, ignoring Malfoy’s panicked hand grabbing his robes. 

“It isn’t what it used to be. It’s better, I promise.” 

Scratch glared at him, but remained standing still, apparently giving him permission to continue talking. Harry thought fast. 

“Voldemort lost the war, and when he fell, the old Ministry fell too. The people who lead it now are just and fair, and unbiased.” Still silence, so Harry continued. “Hermione Granger, she’s the Head of Magical Creatures, and she’s a good person. She wants to make your lives better for you, in whatever way you want it. She doesn’t want to control or regulate werewolves – she’s trying to legalise you as people, not creatures.” 

Harry didn’t know what else to say, and so he waited with bated breath for Scratch to reply. 

“We are not trusting creatures. We are not forgiving. But we will grant you one chance. Work with us and find our killer. If you betray us, we will rip you to shreds.” He growled and turned away, bored of the conversation.

Harry and Malfoy hurriedly made their polite goodbyes and followed their original guide to the edge of the forest, where they promise to return in several days with more news. Then they apparated into the cottage where, to Harry’s horror, Malfoy fainted.

Harry swore as he launched forward to catch Malfoy’s prone body and lay it gently on the old sofa in the corner of the room. Then, as he waited for Malfoy to wake up, he carefully withdrew a copy of his memories of the meeting and stored the silvery shimmer in a small vial. He wrote and attached a note to it and rolled it through the green flames to Hermione’s office. And then he sat, cross-legged at the base of the sofa, quietly waiting.

Finally Malfoy stirred, stretching his arms as he sat back up. 

“Sorry about that.” 

“What the hell happened?” 

Malfoy didn’t reply, just stared at Harry with wide, grey eyes. Harry gestured with his hands as if to say ‘well, get on with it!’, and Malfoy nodded. Hesitantly, he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, the one with the Dark Mark. Harry flinched as he saw the blackness, and then froze as he saw what was above it – a silvery, human bite mark scarred into the skin just below Malfoy’s elbow.

“Is that….?” Harry didn’t know how to say it. 

“Yes. Fenrir Greyback.” Malfoy said the name with equal parts disgust and fear, looking as though he may vomit. “It was torture. He was allowed to do whatever he wanted, except kill us. I got off easy – I’d taken the Mark, and even Greyback was afraid of the Mark. But Pansy…” Malfoy’s voice broke. “He did worse to Pansy.” 

Harry pictured Pansy, beautiful and charming, smiling her knife-sharp smirk. She worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation as a diplomat, along with her boyfriend, Blaise. She was sarcastic and funny and surprisingly cheerful, and Harry felt sick to think of the horrors she could have been subjected to. 

“I never knew.” Harry said simply. He’d never once thought that the Dark-aligned people might have suffered under Voldemort too. 

Neither said anything for a long time, just sitting there, existing together. Finally, Malfoy stirred. 

“I’m going for drinks with Pansy and Blaise.” He paused. “Do you want to come?” 

Harry was surprised – this invitation was new. Malfoy had never offered before, and Harry had never asked, instead seeing Pansy in his own time. She, too, occasionally stayed in his guest room if Blaise was still out of the country when she returned.

“Yes, I’d like that.” He frowned at his over-formality, but shrugged his robes off and instead pulled on a muggle jacket, watching Malfoy do the same. 

“We always go to muggle London. Less chance of being recognised.” 

Harry nodded. Although it had been six years, and all three Slytherins had been found innocent of all crimes on the basis of their age and upbringing, some wizards still reacted badly when seeing them. The number wasn’t high, or at least that’s what Harry thought. Perhaps it was worse than he’d realised.

“Good. I’m not in the mood to sign any autographs today.” Or ever, Harry added mentally, grimacing at the thought of hordes of people all crying out his name, crowding closer to touch him. Six years had not diminished his fame or popularity with the general population, much to his dismay. 

Malfoy held out his arm for side-apparition, and they turned on the spot, arriving in a small, dark alley in Camden. Malfoy quickly directed Harry towards a fancy bar, but he hesitated. 

“I’m not wearing even remotely the sort of clothes I should wear if I’m going in there, Malfoy…” 

It was true. Harry wasn’t even sure he owned any clothes that would be suitable – he always valued comfort over just about anything else when wearing muggle clothes, although he had plenty of flashy wizarding robes for all the events he had to attend. Although, now he thought about it, that was probably a mix of Ginny and Pansy’s interference. 

Malfoy rolled his eyes and waved his wand discretely, and Harry’s baggy jeans and large t-shirt transformed into black slacks and a white button down shirt, similar to Malfoy’s own clothes. Muttering a quick word of thanks, Harry followed Malfoy across the road and into the bar, where they were greeted by a loud squeal of joy. 

A blur of gold and black flew past Harry into Malfoy’s arms, and, at a much more respectable pace, Blaise followed, giving Harry a quick, tight hug, more business than pleasure. Harry’s relationship with Blaise was friendly, but both knew it was mostly because Pansy insisted.

“Potter.” He greeted warmly. “Nice to see you.” 

Harry replied in kind, and they turned to see Draco carefully disentangling Pansy from around his neck. She was dressed in a slinky black and gold dress, and her black hair was cut short, to her chin, as always. She looked, for all intents and purposes, like she was calm and relaxed, but Harry could see her wand strapped to her right thigh, within easy reach. He felt relieved to know someone else was always prepared for danger.

“Blaise, darling, show Draco to the table while I get another round.” Pansy pushed Draco gently into Blaise’s direction, and firmly took Harry’s arm as she led him to the bar. She ordered four gin and tonics, and then turned to Harry with a wide smile on her face. 

“Harry, darling, how have you been?” She leant forward and kissed each cheek. “It’s been an age, we really ought to catch up more often. But at least Draco has finally given in and brought you along!” 

As always, Pansy talked a mile a minute, barely letting Harry get a word in edgeways; she reminded him of Hermione in this respect. There had been a strange day soon after the war, after both girls had joined the ministry, where they’d had to work together, along with the Aurors. Both Ron and Harry had been gobsmacked to see them getting on well, until it had suddenly clicked – both girls valued information and knowledge (although Hermione preferred facts and Pansy favoured gossip) and both girls would do anything to get what they wanted. Hermione and Pansy were highly intelligent, determined and fierce. It was no wonder Hermione and Pansy were so close.

The drinks were made and the two brought them to the table in the corner, where Malfoy and Blaise were having an animated conversation about something in French. Malfoy looked flustered, and Blaise looked almost bored, although that wasn’t much of a change, Harry thought. Pansy scooted into the booth and quickly kissed Blaise before turning to Malfoy. 

“Enough of the French now, dear, Harry doesn’t speak any.” She chastised, sharing out the drinks. Malfoy rolled his eyes and sighed, and then winced. Harry felt Pansy’s high-heeled foot returning to under the chair, and he smirked at Malfoy. 

“I heard on the grapevine that Hermione is pregnant! How exciting!” 

Harry didn’t bother asking how Pansy knew – she was a born and bred socialite, and as a result knew everybody and everything. Instead, he nodded and told her of their hopeful name choices, and she cooed in delight. 

“I expect she’ll continue to work, though, won’t she?” 

“Of course, as though anything could stop Granger working!” Blaise replied before Harry could, and everybody laughed. The laughter wasn’t unkind, though, as it would have been in school – instead, it was friendly, even admiring. They saw what Hermione was trying to achieve, and they respected her for it.

The conversation turned to news about friends and colleagues, as Pansy eagerly shared any gossip she’d acquired in the last few weeks since she’d been back in London. Pansy was an excellent story teller, and was even better at piecing together facts to create the story.

Harry couldn’t help but look for signs of Greyback on her skin, but her white skin was unblemished everywhere he could see, and he thought back to Malfoy’s broken voice saying “He did worse to Pansy” and realised he probably would never know quite what happened to her.

Harry stayed with the three ex-Slytherins for hours, drinking merrily as the sun dropped behind the city skyline and the bar filled with noisy muggles. The bar grew warm, and Malfoy rolled up his shirt sleeves, and Harry saw he hadn’t glamoured his Dark Mark, as he usually did in public. Harry understood – here in muggle London, nobody would spare a second thought for what looked like an edgy tattoo – there would be no shame in Malfoy baring his arms. 

The sky was black and sprinkled with stars when Harry finally staggered out of the bar, grinning back at Pansy blowing a kiss. Behind her stood Malfoy and Blaise, watching him with strangely pleasant smiles on their faces, waving goodbye. 

Harry darted down an alley and turned on the spot, appearing by his bed. He fell face first onto it, passed out.


	5. The mystery of hatred

Harry woke up with a raging headache and a dry mouth, and immediately vomited onto the pillow next to him.

“How the hell do a bunch of Slytherins drink harder than Gryffindors?” He grouched as he rolled over in bed and almost fell off, swearing under his breath as he righted himself. 

He’d missed out on his weekly Wine and Whiskey Wednesday with Ron and as many old Gryffindors as they could round up each week (he knew he’d receive a Howler from Ron about it sometime this morning) and by God did he regret it – he’d never have gotten that drunk with Ron and their friends around to prank him. Strange, he thought, that he trusted ex-Slytherins more than his old housemates not to mess with him when smashed. 

Harry spent a few more precious minutes in bed before, grumbling all the while, he made his way into the bathroom, where he kept a small stock of Hermione’s various patented potions. He took a heavy dose of her hangover remedy and finished getting ready for work, leaving just in time not to be late. 

“You look terrible, Potter.” Malfoy said without looking up from his notes as Harry stepped out of the flames. 

“Thanks, Malfoy, always good to hear.” Harry replied, rolling his eyes as he joined Malfoy at Cressida’s table. Malfoy pushed over a plate of toast and a mug of coffee. Harry immediately took a bite, thanking him through a mouthful of toast. 

“Right, we have to discuss yesterday’s meeting with the Northumberland pack.”

“Yeah, and we have to make some sort of progress on either who took Cressida or who’s killing the werewolves, assuming they aren’t the same person.” 

“Right, we can’t make any assumptions at this point.” Malfoy paused. “Although we should probably know more than we do right now…It’s been almost a week since we first got the case.”

Harry was saved from having to answer by the arrival of a bright red Howler. Malfoy finally looked up, seeming amused as Ron’s voice bellowed out.

“Harry, you git, where were you last night? You missed out on a banging night, mate! Katie and Oliver got so drunk they staged a Quidditch match without brooms! And you should have seen Cormac! He put on the karaoke and started dancing to Celestina Warbreck! Reply ASAP that you’re coming tonight or I’ll come and find you, idiot!”

The Howler burnt up and fell to the table as a pile of ashes, which Harry quickly flicked away with a gesture. Malfoy, having started out amused, was now audibly laughing as Harry scrawled out a quick explanation to Ron.

“Is that what goes on at your reunions?” 

“They’re not reunions! Well, not really – it’s every week, same pub, and anyone who is free comes along.” 

“Even so, that is incredibly lame.” Malfoy, still snorting, replied. He pulled a stiff white piece of card from his pocket and showed it to Harry. Engraved on it, in black spidery font, were the names of Pansy and Blaise, along with their address and a time. 

“Is that the invitation to this year’s dinner party and ball?” Harry asked, taking it and looking more closely. 

“Yep, they’re sending them out this evening. You going to come?” 

“Yeah, I always do, you know that.” He did – Hermione had forced him the first year, saying somehow both sarcastically and earnestly that the great Harry Potter attending such an event would go a long way to repair relations after the war. He’d grumbled, but it had been so much fun that he promised to go every year. 

“What’s the theme, do you know?” 

Pansy and Blaise’s annual dinner party/ball had a different muggle theme each year, which dictated the style of food and decoration – their first, five years before, had been Masquerade. It had been followed by Circus, Disco, the four Seasons and last year had been Ocean, which had included mostly seafood, much to Ron’s disgust. The guest list varied each year, but Pansy and Blaise always invited Malfoy, Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna and Neville, along with other school friends and Ministry colleagues; the guest list often topped fifty people. 

“You know what I’m going to say, Potter, so why ask?” 

The theme was always a surprise – the invitation always said roughly to dress in elegant, fancy muggle clothes and come prepared for anything. The event this year was set for Friday 19th, just over a week away. 

Harry rolled his eyes at Malfoy, adding the date of the event to his note to Ron, reminding him to keep the night clear. Every year, he forgot and scheduled some team meeting or drinks with friends, despite, every year, Harry and Hermione reminding him multiple times. Harry suspected it was a little bit of Ron’s subconscious prejudice against Slytherin acting up, because Ron always enjoyed the event more than anybody else when he actually got there.

“OK, moving on. We need to ask Granger a few things, so start writing a letter. I’ll dictate.” 

“I always write.” Harry grumbled as he produced a new piece of paper and waited for Malfoy to start talking. It was true that Harry could charm a quill to write as either one spoke, but Harry had to admit that he enjoyed this effort at teamwork. 

Malfoy outlined that Hermione needed to give them any information about the Northumberland pack she could find, as well as any known werewolf haters that in the surrounding area that they should visit. Additionally, they wanted to know about other werewolf murders in the country. Finally, they wanted Hermione to put them into contact with anybody who might have known Cressida Boone was in England. 

Harry added the date of Pansy’s event (with ‘REMIND RON’ written next to it in large letters) and sent the letters through the flames to Hermione’s office.

“Alright, that’ll probably take Granger an hour or two, max, to do, so I suggest we head to the latest crime scene.”

“Agreed. We should change our appearances – we don’t want to publicise to any wizards that we’re investigating.”

And so Harry and Malfoy found themselves standing, side by side, in front of the small mirror in Cressida’s bathroom. Harry, distracted, watched as Malfoy pointed his wand at his silvery hair, which was usually slicked back sleekly, and was now falling softly around his face. The tip of Malfoy’s wand spread a dark brown flowing through his hair, like an oil spill. At the same time, Malfoy’s grey eyes darkened, and his high cheekbones faded away beneath rosy cheeks. Harry stared – in all their time working together, he’d never seen Malfoy in disguise – usually there was no need, instead using Disillusionment Charms, or, in Harry’s case, his Cloak.

“Stop staring and get on with it, Potter.” Malfoy snapped, and Harry started.

He turned to his own face, strong and almost square, scar on his forehead, half hidden by messy black hair, green eyes behind circular glasses. He closed his eyes, passed one hand slowly over his face, and then the other, right to left, then left to right. Then, without opening his eyes, he tapped his glasses with a fingernail, and then opened his eyes. His face was now framed by short, spiky blond hair. His eyes were a piercing blue, behind rectangle glasses, and the only marking on his face was a slight birthmark below his left eye. He frowned, and watched as a stranger frowned back.

“Potter, you haven’t changed your face shape at all.” Malfoy hesitated, then gripped Harry’s chin, not ungently, twisting his face up and sideways towards him. “Here, let me do it.”  
Harry, too surprised to do anything, let him. Malfoy rested the tip of his wand against Harry’s cheek for a moment, fingers tightening on his chin momentarily before letting go. Harry’s face was now thinner and the chin was weaker, less pronounced. 

“Good work.” Harry found himself saying, and watched, discomfited, as Malfoy’s strange new face smiled back. 

***

A few minutes later they found themselves standing in a small, dark alley cordoned off by muggle police tape. The murder had happened only a few days ago, and although the muggles didn’t realise what it was, the connection to the other cases had been made. They’d pretended to be muggle cops from London, Malfoy’s idea, actually, which had worked surprisingly well. It surprised Harry to realise Malfoy must pay more attention to the muggle world than Harry had ever understood.

Now they walked, Malfoy’s wand out surreptitiously, up and down the alley, carefully searching for any signs of magic – as Junior Aurors they’d learnt that every individual had a specific brand of magic, so to speak – it could be marked and traced and used as a way of identifying criminals. 

“That’s… a lot of blood.” Malfoy pointed out, gesturing to dark patches on the stone floor and brick wall. 

“Not the Killing Curse, then.” Harry brushed his fingers through the air above the blood soaked ground and stiffened in confusion. “It’s the Sectumsempra. The one I used…” 

Harry and Malfoy made eye contact, just for a moment, and Harry realised he didn’t have to finish his sentence – both men knew exactly which spell he meant. Malfoy wasn’t going to make him say it, and Harry was grateful. Whoever had cast this spell had meant it to be a slow and painful death, and they both knew it. 

“I’ve never heard of it.” 

“That’s because Snape created it when he was at Hogwarts. I found it written in my sixth-year Potions textbook.” 

There was a pause as Malfoy absorbed this information about his former mentor, and then he gasped.

“You had his textbook? No wonder you were suddenly a Potions prodigy that year!” He sounded jealous, and Harry was reminded of his obsessive love for Potions back in school.

“Is that really relevant right now?” Harry snapped back, mostly joking, but he was surprised, and for some reason pleased, to realise Malfoy had been paying attention to him back then. 

“I guess not…not at the moment, anyway. So, it’s Dark magic.”

“So it’s Dark magic.” Harry agreed, trying to ignore some strange familiar feeling that was rising up inside him – he felt slightly off-kilter, like the world was upside down. He shook his head, dog-like shaking off water, and turned back round to face Malfoy, who said what they were both thinking. 

“So did Severus teach the killer the spell before he died? Or did he learn it the same way you did?” 

“We’ll have to look into both options.” Harry said, trying to dispel the sickening memories of casting the curse, as a small owl flew into the alley, landing at Harry’s feet. He looked around nervously, but no muggles were around to see. He knelt down and opened the note that Hermione had attached to its ankle. 

“She’s sent a list of names and addresses for four vocal werewolf haters. Oh, look at that – Jeremiah Umbridge. Her brother, apparently.” Hermione had written several unpleasant words about Umbridge and her brother, but Harry didn’t relay them to Malfoy, remembering fifth year. Malfoy’s face looked pinched and uncomfortable, and it was such a Malfoy-esque facial expression that Harry could suddenly see through the stranger to Malfoy’s true face. 

“Let’s visit them together. I’m not very keen to meet Umbridge’s brother alone.” Harry admitted, and Malfoy nodded gratefully, clearly feeling the same. Harry wondered what these people would do when they came face to face with Harry, who had been a staunch, vocal supporter of Hermione’s work since day one. 

***

Malfoy and Harry stood at the doorway of the fourth and final house, belonging to Jeremiah Umbridge. Both men were quiet and uneasy – this house visit was a painful and unpleasant reminder of their school days, even before the war had truly started, when they’d hated each other on principle and out of pride. 

They had ruled out the three before, deciding they were incredibly unpleasant, but unlikely killers. Each unsuccessful visit had put Harry more on edge, as though something was on the tip of his tongue and he couldn’t quite remember what. A dark, unnerving thought was stirring inside him. Trying to shrug off the feeling, Harry reach out and knocked.

A small man with a pinched face swung open the door, and he glared suspiciously out at Harry and Malfoy, who both still wore their glamours. Malfoy quickly flashed his Auror badge at the man, and he grunted and walked into the house, giving no indication whether they should follow him or leave. Harry shrugged at Malfoy, and followed Jeremiah into the gloom. 

“Mr Umbridge, we’re here to ask you a few questions about an ongoing investigation. Is now a good time?” Malfoy’s voice was polite, cool, professional. Jeremiah threw himself into a ratty armchair and grunted again, this time gesturing vaguely towards a sofa on the other side of the room. Harry and Malfoy sat. 

They caught each other’s eye and, without speaking, both knew they’d decided not to remove their glamours – if Jeremiah was this unpleasant to any random government official who came visiting, it wasn’t worth finding out what he’d do to the man who was partly responsible for his sister’s trauma and mental breakdown which resulted in a permanent place at St Mungo’s.

“Mr Umbridge, we’d like to ask you about some of your public statements about werewolves.” Harry spoke calmly and carefully, watching Jeremiah’s hands, waiting to see if he’d twitch, go for his wand. He didn’t reach for anything, but he tensed, leaning forward in his chair. 

“What’s that got to do with anything?” His voice was rough. 

“It’s new protocol, Mr Umbridge – we’re to visit anyone who speaks out against werewolves or any other kind of magical non-human, just to check up.”

“Oh, all that crap again, is it?” He grumbled, adjusting himself in his chair. “Why can’t you lot just leave me alone? I’ve not done anything to harm no-one, so can’t you lot just bugger off?” 

Both young men paused. 

“It’s just that with your familial connection to Dolores Umbridge, we have to check. You understand, sir.” Malfoy’s voice had gotten cooler. Harry remained silent.

“Don’t you talk about Dolly to me! Locking her up in that loony bin! It’s a crime against humanity, it is!” He leapt up, hands curling into fists.

“She’s lucky it’s not Azkaban!” Harry barked, surprised at himself. The scar on his hand was tingling. 

“You’re one of them, are you? One of them bastards what tried to put her away on that hellish island when she never did nothing wrong?” Jeremiah was enraged now, spittle flying from his mouth, but still no sign of his wand, to both Harry and Malfoy’s confusion. 

“Your sister committed horrific crimes. She deserved the punishment she got and worse!” Harry snapped back, mind racing – anyone as angry as Jeremiah seemed to be would have pulled his wand by now. Clearly it wasn’t respect for the government that was holding him back, or an ability to control himself – even as Harry thought, Jeremiah was ranting and raving, red-faced, about poor Delores locked away for trying to help the true wizards. 

“You don’t have a wand, do you?” Harry realised aloud. Jeremiah sat back down suddenly, face blank. 

“Don’t need one, do I? I’m a Squib.” He spat, and Malfoy relaxed beside Harry. This cleared Jeremiah as a suspect, and additionally it suggested some strange, unpleasant things about his relationship with his sister, who so publicly had denounced Squibs as true wizards. 

Harry and Malfoy quickly made their apologies and left the house. They made their way back to the cottage and sat at the table, writing up their notes. Harry checked his watch, and saw that he would be expected at Ron and Hermione’s soon. 

“Right, I’ve got to be headed off.” Harry stood, waving his hands and watching as all his notes carefully piled together. Malfoy sniffed, not looking up, and Harry thought back to the night before. 

“Ron always cooks more than enough, you hungry?” He couldn’t explain it, but he really wanted Malfoy to say yes. He’d been polite enough to ask Harry yesterday, after all – of course Harry had to do the same tonight. 

Malfoy looked up, surprised, almost pleased. He agreed, much to Harry’s relief, and they finished packing up, walking together towards the fire.


	6. There is thunder in our hearts

“I have a guest!” Harry cried out as he stepped through the fireplace just ahead of Malfoy, hoping it would help contain Ron and Ginny’s weekly madness. It was a futile hope, he realised, as Ginny immediately called out to him, trying to get him involved in some sibling bicker she was having, energetically, with Ron as they served up. 

“Oi, Harry, tell Ron his Chudley Cannons are shit!” 

Ron immediately reached out to whack Ginny on the head, crying out that Harry wasn’t stupid and he agreed the Cannons were the best. Harry just shook his head, smiling, refusing to get between two of his best friends, as always, and instead turned to check that Malfoy had come through the fire. 

Malfoy stood, frozen, half in, half out the room, carefully taking stock of each person present. Harry realised he’d forgotten to mention that Neville and his latest girlfriend would be coming to dinner too, rounding out the number at eight, counting Malfoy. Malfoy took a deep breath and stepped fully in, smiling round at everybody. Neville and his girlfriend were already sat at the table, listening with amusement to Ron and Ginny’s bickering about the Chudley Cannons.

“Hello, Harry. Hello, Draco.” Luna smiled serenely at them from across the dinner table, where she appeared to be showing Hermione how to fold a napkin into a tiny dragon. Hermione looked surprised, but not displeased, to see Malfoy, and she gave Harry a strange, knowing look as Harry ushered him towards the table. 

As promised, there was an empty seat, and enough food to spare, so Malfoy slotted in neatly between Harry and Hermione. Malfoy politely greeted everyone around the table, shaking hands with Neville’s girlfriend Calliope. Harry, grinning, subtly did a thumbs up at Neville – Calliope, tall and blonde and slim, was certainly attractive, and, judging by the way she looked at Neville, infatuated. Neville winked back, placing an arm around her shoulders proudly. 

Ron finished serving up, jokingly telling everyone “Don’t worry, this is all me, Hermione just watched!” Everyone laughed as Hermione, blushing and smiling, slapped his arm gently. 

Dinner passed in a blur of noise and laughter, with Ginny and Luna telling everybody about some bizarre adventure they’d had a few months ago while travelling, and Harry and Neville countering with their wildest experience in Mexico a few years ago. Hermione was, of course, horrified by their “stupid, reckless behaviour”, which only made everyone laugh more – even Hermione, who, after spending years with Ron, could now happily be the brunt of a harmless joke without being offended. 

Soon the meal was finished, and everybody relocated to the sofas and chairs; Ginny was perched on Harry’s sofa arm and Luna was happily sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire. She was fiddling with the napkin dragon she’d made earlier, and as Harry watched she carefully tapped its head with her wand, whispering something under her breath. Hermione patted Luna’s shoulder gently, as though encouraging or reassuring her. Harry saw the nervousness on Luna’s face and, pleased, knew what was coming.

The dragon suddenly came to life, flying on cloth wings into the middle of the room, coughing up smoke and sparks. It flew for some minutes around the impressed and excited group, landing on Ron’s ginger head and Harry’s shoulder, and Malfoy looked pleased as it flapped its wings in his face for a moment. It finally completed its cycle around the room, stopping in front of Ginny, where it coughed up bright red sparks spelling out “Will you marry me?” Everyone turned to look at Luna, who held out a beautiful silver ring to Ginny, who burst into happy tears and leant down to kiss her, saying “Yes, yes, yes!” Over and over again. 

As the room erupted into conversation, Harry found himself watching Malfoy, his usually solemn face curved into a soft smile. His eyes were bright as they sought out Harry’s, and they both sat, frozen amidst the cheerful chaos, as they stared at each other across the room. Harry couldn’t decode the look on Malfoy’s face, and felt something confusing stirring deep inside himself. Blinking, he turned away abruptly, accidentally catching Hermione’s eye, frowning as she raised a questioning eyebrow at him before turning to talk to Ron quietly. 

Trying to ignore Hermione’s shrewd glances, Harry suggested a toast to the happy couple, and he and Ron vanished into the kitchen to get glasses and a bottle or two of wine. Although it would be just as easy to do it with magic, they often did this to catch up, just the two of them.

“Wow, my baby sister, engaged! Can you believe it?” Ron was delighted, grinning widely. Harry agreed cheerfully, starting to pour out white wine into half the glasses as Ron did the same with red into the other half. 

“And to think we once thought it would be you marrying her!” Ron joked, and Harry laughed out loud, amused by the memories of their relationship – it had been a pleasant and amicable break up when it had become clear to both members that neither was interested in the other’s gender. And on top of that, she’d wanted to start her career without any distractions or complications, and he had no longer been in love with her, so it had been an easy break up. 

Harry, finished, turned to return to the living room, but Ron caught his arm gently. 

“Harry, mate…I’m glad you brought Malfoy tonight. He’s a good guy.” 

Baffled by Ron’s strangely sincere behaviour, Harry left, followed by Ron.

***

Many hours later, when several bottles of wine had been finished by the group, Ginny and Luna excused themselves to return home, blushing at the lewd cheers and jeers of everybody else. Calliope had migrated to Neville’s lap at some point, and Malfoy had moved to sit beside Harry, who’d just finished his third glass of wine. 

Harry looked sideways at Malfoy’s fourth glass, half finished, and fished it out of his hand, downing it himself. Malfoy, mock-outraged, jabbed him in the side and Harry shifted out of the way, smirking. Malfoy wrinkled his nose at Harry and returned to his conversation with Ron, and Harry relaxed back into the chair, realising a moment too late he’d slumped too close to Malfoy – their arms and thighs were pressed against each other. Flushing with embarrassment, Harry didn’t shy away, thinking it would be too rude, and besides, Malfoy was probably too drunk to have noticed anyway. 

Neville and Calliope stood, hand in hand, and headed to the fireplace. 

“Don’t worry, Harry, I’m staying with Calliope tonight – flat’s all yours again.” Neville winked at Harry and walked through the fire with Calliope. 

“Why’d he wink?” Malfoy, almost slurring, addressed Harry, who shrugged, equally confused. Malfoy nodded, as though he’d got an answer, and leaned back into the chair, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry didn’t bat an eyelid, surprised at himself for how casual it felt. 

This was the first time they’d gotten drunk together in a more private setting, Harry realised, which he thought explained Malfoy’s relaxed behaviour and willingness to drink more than usual.

“So, Malfoy, dating anyone at the moment?” Ron asked, still sat beside Hermione on the sofa opposite. 

“Nah, haven’t found the right person yet.” Malfoy seemed to be falling asleep and Harry, feeling the effects of the wine, thought perhaps they should return to their homes. 

“Funny, that’s what Harry always says too.” Ron said to Hermione, who was watching Harry carefully. Harry was confused. 

“Is this about Connor Johnson? Did Neville tell you I rejected him? It wouldn’t have worked out, he’s not my type, and you know that.” 

Hermione made a small sound of impatience and patted Ron’s leg.

“Goodness, sometimes you’re more oblivious than Ron, Harry!” She sighed. 

Not long after, Harry and Malfoy left Hermione and Ron’s flat, agreeing to meet work separately tomorrow and meet back together on Monday. 

***

Harry woke up screaming. His mind was filled with pools of blood and cut up faces and voices howling in pain. He lay on his back, panting, crying, for a long while, trying to understand his nightmare, but only one thought kept returning – he’d just dreamt of casting the Sectumsempra curse on multiple people, and it had felt like real memories. Was it possible the Elder Wand had won? Could he be the one killing those werewolves without knowing? 

He knew the spell, and he’d cast it before, but Malfoy’s body hadn’t featured in his dream. He needed to talk to someone. His mind flitted to the possibility of asking Dumbledore, but he faltered at the thought of using the stone, and so he checked the time; Hermione would be in a meeting, but he knew Ron would be working on his paperwork in his office.

And so it was less than ten minutes later that Harry stumbled into Ron’s office, pale and shivering. Ron opened his mouth, prepared to make a hangover joke, but he stopped short at the sight of Harry’s tearstained face. Ron swung the door shut and pulled out a chair, forcing Harry into it. 

“What’s wrong? Another nightmare?” Ron asked, voice uncharacteristically quiet – it was the voice both he and Hermione reserved for when Harry had another episode. 

Harry quickly explained his nightmare and the generalities of his and Malfoy’s case – Ron had been an excellent Auror before heading up the Strategic and Tactical Analysis department, and if anyone could understand, it would be him. Ron listened in silence to Harry’s worries and fears, face unusually grave. 

“You think the Wand is controlling you?” 

“I don’t know – only sometimes, I guess.” 

“Is this the only dream you’ve had like this?” 

“Yeah. They’re normally about the war.”

“Have you told anyone else?” 

“I couldn’t tell Hermione – she’s on the case too, and if there’s any doubt about me, I have to be arrested, you know that.” 

Ron was quiet, thinking. Then he leaped up and closed the shutters of his office window. Then he locked his door and turned to face Harry. 

“You won’t like what I’m about to suggest. But I think you’d better agree.” 

Harry nodded wretchedly, desperate for any source of comfort. 

“Hermione’s been teaching me Legilimency. I know you’re still rubbish at Occlumency, so I think all I need to do is see if you have any memories you’re repressing.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t refute Ron’s claim about his Occlumency skills – it was one of the few skills he’d been totally unable to develop, despite more training in recent years.   
Ron crouched in front of Harry’s chair and stared him deeply in the eyes and whispered “Legilimens”. 

Ron’s skills were rudimentary – he could divine particular memories if the subject was willing, as Harry was, but he couldn’t block out other, more present, memories. If Harry had been less distraught, he might have been concerned about what Ron might see. 

Countless memories started to flash through their minds, but some stood out – Harry’s nightmare of slashed bodies and sprayed blood made both men flinch. Ron followed this thread of violence and pain and found himself watching Harry’s wand streaming green towards black-hooded figures, and then saw Greyback’s hunched form crouched over Lavender, and then saw Voldemort’s screaming face looming. 

Shuddering, he leapt away from the darkening thread and soldiered on, finding himself watching as Voldemort pointed his wand at Harry and…Harry fell, everything going black. Ron panicked, threw himself out, found himself watching Malfoy’s pale face crying in a bathroom mirror. Curiosity getting the better of him, Ron followed this thread, flicking through countless memories of Malfoy frowning, smirking, casting spells, ending at a memory of Harry and Malfoy watching each other as people crowded around Luna and Ginny. Last night, Ron realised, and finally withdrew from Harry’s mind.

He crouched there in front of Harry as they both breathed heavily. He realised he’d seen the moment Harry had refused to talk about for six years – the moment he’d died. He thought about apologising, but before he could, Harry asked what he’d seen. Ron remembered that Harry didn’t always see what the Legilimens saw – he truly had no skill at this whatsoever. 

“I only found the one memory of casting the Sectumsempra, and that was of Malfoy. The dream was, as far as I can tell, just a dream.” 

Both men were relieved, but Ron’s face was still grave. 

“I think it’s fucking with you. The Wand, I mean. You haven’t used it in six years – you’ve told us it speaks to you – maybe it’s tired of waiting for you to crack, and it’s trying to make you think you already have.”

This made sense to Harry. “I guess I’m an easier target if I think I’ve already given in…” 

“Exactly! I don’t think you’ve used it at all. Not to be rude, but you’re shit at Occlumency – I’d have seen something.”

“But what do I do now?” Harry’s voice hurt Ron – he sounded so desperate, so hopeless. They both thought about it – Harry’s fear of causing and violence and pain was making him an easy target, and miserable to boot. 

“Go see Luna.” 

****

And so Harry turned up at Luna’s shop in Diagon Alley, praying she’d be there – and she was. She greeted Harry with a wide smile and told him if he waited ten minutes she’d be able to chat. 

Fifteen minutes later (Luna always ran late) she let him into her office and they sat on beanbags together. 

“I’m having nightmares again.” He told her, and subconsciously traced his fingers over the single therapeutic tattoo she’d given him four years ago, when his guilt over the war had been overwhelming and he’d had nightmares every night for a year – placed just above his heart, a silver lily pulsed with his heartbeat, to remind him with each beat that he was loved and loving. 

“You’re dreaming of causing violence again?” Luna’s voice was without emotion, as it always was when someone came to her with troubles, and it reassured Harry. She knew which part of his nightmares worried him the most – he hated that the war had changed him, that hunting and hurting people now came easily to him.

“Yes. I’m dreaming that I’m killing people. I’m afraid.” He knew he couldn’t tell her about the Elder Wand, of course, but anything else was fair game. 

“Have you killed anyone?” 

Glad he’d been to see Ron first, he replied “No, of course not.” She nodded, and waited for him to speak again. 

“What if it’s inevitable, and I’m just holding out pointlessly?” 

“I don’t believe anything is inevitable, Harry.” Luna said disapprovingly. “Besides, you’ve got the strongest will of anyone I’ve met. Nothing can control you if you don’t want it to.”

This was so accurate and appropriate for the situation that Harry wondered, not for the first time, if Luna knew more than she let on. But her face was innocent, and so he continued to talk, about his fear and his loneliness. 

After an hour of talking, Luna suggested a second therapeutic tattoo – rather than using normal ink, it would be spelled and charmed with a particular purpose. Harry agreed, and held out his arm – she’d chosen each of his previous tattoos (the silver lily, the Deathly Hallows symbol on his right shoulder, and the Sirius star he’d had done after the war) and so he trusted her to choose right this time too. 

Luna bowed down over Harry’s left arm for what felt like hours, slowly, painstakingly carving an image into his skin with burning silver ink. He tried to think of what it might be, but Luna’s mind had always been a mystery to him. Finally, she pulled away, carefully casting a pain releasing spell and showing Harry his new tattoo.

Harry stared down at the silver eye tattooed on his inner forearm. 

“A third eye – normally on people’s foreheads, but I wasn’t sure that would work for you.” Luna said. 

“What does it mean?” 

“A higher level of perception, I suppose, or foresight.” Luna paused, thinking – often her tattoo ideas came to her without her knowing why, and she had to think to understand them, same as her client. “Also the evil eye – it was used as protection, for good luck, and it harms those who wish you evil. It felt right.” 

“It is right. Thank you, Luna.” Harry hugged her, tightly, feeling calm for the first time since his nightmare.

He left Luna’s shop and, checking the time, swore – early afternoon already and he’d done nothing he’d agreed with Malfoy. Malfoy was checking out other werewolf murders in the country, so Harry had to interview anybody who’d known Cressida Boone was in England. That included Hermione, but he figured he’d check in with her last – he knew it was biased, but he couldn’t ever imagine suspecting her for something like this.


	7. We are the hollow men

Harry left the Department of Magical Transport with more questions than he’d had going in – he’d spoken to four people in the last few hours, and three of them had seemed totally unaware that Cressida was missing, or what she’d been doing in the UK. He would check them out anyway, of course, but he was pretty sure they weren’t involved.

But the fourth person he’d interviewed, the Deputy Head of the Portkey Office, Susan Darling, had left him feeling uncomfortable. All her answers had been exactly what Harry wanted to hear, and she’d been perfectly polite and helpful, but something in her eyes had unsettled him. He hadn’t asked anything about werewolves, which, in hindsight, was a blessing – whether or not she was involved, it was safer to keep the two cases separate in the public eye.

“Hey, Hermione.” Harry greeted cheerfully, closing her office door behind her. He rarely came to her office on Level Four nowadays (she mostly came down to Level Two to see both Harry and Ron in one fell swoop) and he’d almost forgotten how overwhelming it was. Obsessively tidy and neat, every single inch of wall was bookshelves, with hundreds of books in alphabetical order. Her desk was littered with countless labelled folders and there were boxes, stacked waist height, of case files in organised lines. 

“Hello, Harry!” Hermione, surprised to see him, made no motion to stand up, instead just waving vaguely at the chair opposite her desk as she finished signing some document. “What can I do for you, Harry?” 

“Well, Mrs Granger-Weasley, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Harry answered in an overly formal voice, knowing she’d laugh, which she did, amused. 

“But seriously, I just need to know a few things for the Cressida Boone case.” 

“Oh, of course. I anticipated this, actually, so I’ve written out a few things that you might need.” She handed over a large pile of parchment. 

“A few?” Harry asked incredulously, looking in horror at all the paperwork she’d compiled. “Did any of your subordinates know about Cressida’s presence in the country?” 

“I didn’t inform anyone, but perhaps my assistant may have known. I’ll ask her, if you like?” 

“That would be great. And did Cressida get in contact with you before coming to the country?” 

“No, only once she was already in Northumberland. She wrote to me and explained that she’d come across something I needed to know about, and I should let her know when I was available to meet her.” 

“Did you ever meet with her?”

“No, I’d have mentioned. She never replied to my letter, and after a few days I filed her missing, after trying to contact her via Floo.”

“You didn’t think she might have just forgotten?” Even as he asked, he knew what she would say.

“I believed if she thought it was important enough to involve me, it was too important for her to be casual about it. I was right.” 

“Thanks, Hermione. Now, just so I can officially note it down, you didn’t commit any crimes against werewolves, did you?”

“No, of course not.” Hermione replied, not offended, smiling across at him as he stood and, clutching his pile of papers, headed to the door. 

“Oh, Harry, wait a second.” She waited for him to turn around before continuing. “You’re going to Dean and Seamus’s art gala tomorrow, aren’t you?” 

“Ah, shit! I’d forgotten… yeah, I’ll be there.” Frowning now, Harry left Hermione’s office and headed down to his and Malfoy’s shared office, hoping Malfoy had had more success than he had. 

***

“Potter, what took you so bloody long?” Malfoy snapped as soon as Harry swung open the door to their office, and Harry, surprised, stared at him. 

“Is something wrong, Malfoy?” Malfoy had spoken with more animosity than he usually did, and although Harry racked his brain, he couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong recently.

Malfoy frowned at him across the room, and Harry stared back, refusing to back down. Malfoy flushed, slightly. 

“No, Potter, nothing’s wrong. Just tired.” He replied at last, returning his gaze to his notes. “What did you find out?” 

“I need to do a little background research, but I think we can clear four of the five people I talked to today. Hermione, obviously, and several people in Magical Transportation.” 

“So someone was suspicious?” 

“No, that’s just it.” Harry replied, wondering if he was about to sound like a madman. “Everything Susan Darling said was perfect. She was really polite – nice, actually.” 

“So then what was it?” 

“She seemed off. I don’t know how to describe it. Something about the way she looked at me. Like there was something else going on inside her head that I couldn’t get at.” 

“I know the feeling.” Malfoy muttered under his breath before finally looking up at Harry.

“Ok, so we need to do deep background on her.” 

Harry, relieved that Malfoy had trusted him without quibbling over details, asked what Malfoy had found. 

“Only two of the murders seemed to match our MO – one in Edinburgh two years ago, which was coded as a mugging gone bad, and one in London last year, which was coded as an unsolved murder.” Malfoy held out his small black notebook. “I made notes, if you want to copy them.” 

Harry took the notebook and set about copying across the information, noting grumpily that Malfoy’s handwriting was perfect on every single page – elegant calligraphy compared to Harry’s chicken-scratch. 

The room slowly darkened, until it was only lit by the flickering electric bulb above their heads, and Harry leant back in his uncomfortable seat, stretching. Malfoy watched out of the corner of his eye, presumably to see if he’d return to work or if he intended to finish for the day. 

“Alright, I’m off for the weekend.” Harry stood and headed to the door, pausing in the doorway as he pulled on his robes. “You going to the art gala tomorrow?” 

Both Harry and Malfoy had been to every single gala Dean and Seamus had hosted, each donating obscenely large amounts of money to their charity, Help for War Orphans; Dean and Seamus had become singularly dedicated to helping innocent people who had suffered during wizarding wars, and they now travelled the world to help anyone affected by any magical skirmishes and find artwork to sell at their charity galas. 

The event was never pleasant for Harry – he struggled with the guilt and shame of causing the war, and he was reminded that Malfoy felt similarly about his part in it as he watched Malfoy flinch slightly.

“Yes, of course. I’ll be outbidding you this year, Potter, just you wait!” Malfoy smirked a hollow smile at Harry, who smiled back. 

“I’m sure you will.” He replied sarcastically, before adding. “Well, I look forward to seeing you there.” 

Hearing the words come out of his mouth, he darted out of the door, grimacing and repeating the words to himself in a silly voice. 

***

Twenty-four hours later, early Saturday evening, Harry frowned at himself in the mirror, adjusting his robes yet again, convinced they weren’t lying right. He could feel his stomach roiling with nerves, for some inexplicable reason, on top of the mild dread he always felt about this event. 

He took a few deep breaths, schooling his face into a pleasant, hopeful expression to match the mood of the evening – Dean and Seamus made a huge effort to make the event a positive, hopeful experience rather than gloomy and sentimental about the casualties of the war. Harry hated to disappoint them by showing up in a mood. 

He double checked his appearance in the mirror again, and Apparated to Ron and Hermione’s – they always went to the galas together – they knew how miserable these events made him, and they always did their best to make sure he was OK.

He hated feeling like he treated them as emotional guard dogs, keeping out his most negative thoughts, but they both constantly reassured him that it was normal for friends to look out for each other – that’s what love was, after all, and didn’t they all love each other? Harry could never disagree with that.

“Alright, mate?” Ron greeted him as Harry appeared in their living room, turning around as Hermione fussed over his navy robes. Hermione’s robes, a pale lilac, complemented perfectly, and Harry smiled. 

“Oh, Harry, what lovely robes you’re wearing! What a beautiful colour!” Hermione cried, finally releasing Ron and straightening up, slinging her infamous tiny bag over her shoulder. “What made you choose that colour, Harry?”

Harry looked down at his dark green robes and shrugged, accepting Hermione’s arm as Ron snagged her other arm as they Apparated away. 

They appeared in the doorway of a large hall lit brightly by coloured lamps. Harry flinched as he saw his face, huge on a banner, surrounded by intricate patterns made up of wizarding photos of everybody who’d fought in the war. Ron and Hermione both smiled proudly to see their faces, only a little smaller than Harry’s, but they quickly turned to face away, dragging Harry with them. 

They’d been there for only moments when the paparazzi swarmed around them, buzzing with excitement. The camera flashes startled Harry and he grimaced for a second before he remembered himself, pasting on a wide smile, his famous face all teeth and lips. 

“Alright, alright, give the man some space!” Dean appeared amid the paparazzi, gently pushing them away, towards more willing subjects (Ron and Hermione loved giving interviews at these events, and only partly because it saved Harry from having to do the same). 

“You alright, mate?” Dean asked, noting the faint sheen of sweat on Harry’s upper lip, which he hastily wiped away. 

“Yeah, yeah, all good. Just surprised me, is all.” It was a bold-faced lie and they both knew it – Harry always expected paparazzi – but Dean didn’t call him out, instead slapping him on the shoulder cheerily and turning away.

Dean, trotting at a fast speed, led Harry away, into the maze of artwork in the centre of the room; he always earmarked a piece or two that he thought Harry would like, and he was always right. Dean slowed to a stop in front of a small painting of Hogwarts in its heyday, before the war and the renovations that had followed. 

“It’s charmed with the same spells on the ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts.” Dean said, proud of his find, and Harry saw it in a different light – the dark blues of the sky and the shimmering silver of stars would be gone in the morning, replaced with the burning oranges and pale blues of dawn. 

“How much?” Harry asked, and Dean told him. It was a lot. Harry thought for a second, and then nodded, signing the magical contract that would allow the transfer of Galleons from Gringotts. Dean left Harry to wander the maze. Harry looked at almost every piece, wanting to feel the buzz of his heart that came with finding something he loved, but nothing came, although he saw some great paintings and some skilled photographs. 

Harry stopped short, feeling the buzz, feeling his heart catch. At the end of the little corridor was a large painting of the minutes after Voldemort’s death, and standing in front of it, stock still, was Malfoy. 

Harry stood beside him and stared at the painting, looking at each detail until he thought he knew it by heart. There was Ron and Hermione, faces tired and sad, but relieved, hands tightly clasped as they looked towards Harry, centre frame, on his knees on the dirty floor, face terribly pained. Just behind him was the shadow of Voldemort’s dead body, still crumpled where it had fallen. 

To the left was Ginny and Luna, sat on a bench, bodies bowing in towards each other, both weeping, and Neville, still hopelessly clutching the bloody sword that had killed Nagini. Further out behind them was the rest of the Weasley clan, crowded around a motionless ginger body on the floor, Mr Weasley curved into Mrs Weasley’s warm embrace as they both sobbed. 

To the right of Harry, was the rest of the DA and the Order, more jubilant than those on Harry’s other side – relieved the war was won, they hugged and checked each other for injuries. Lavender was slumped, bleeding, on the ground, being tended to by the Patil twins, but there was a faint smile on her face, like she was glad to be alive. Behind them, shackled with silver chains, was Malfoy’s frail figure, face pale and miserable, and his mother beside him, statuesque, and the other surviving members of the other side.

And behind them all were the countless rows of the shadowy bodies of the fallen, Tonks and Lupin among them. 

Harry looked for a long time, standing silently beside Malfoy, until he couldn’t look any more. He turned to Malfoy. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He said quietly, and Malfoy shrugged and nodded, not turning to face him. There was something familiar in the way Malfoy’s lips were tightly pursed, eyebrows furrowed, and Harry recognised it as pain.

“That doesn’t look like me, though. Too attractive.” Harry added, leaning closer to the small figure of him, with his almost glowing skin and wild, dark hair, looking almost angelic, looking handsomer than Harry ever had. “And they’ve made me look so… hurt."

Harry usually hated any art of him – they felt so fake, like paintings of an idol, but this whole scene had been painted with familiarity and love and pain – it had been painted by someone who had been there that night, he was sure.

“Maybe they thought you were. In pain, I mean.” Malfoy finally spoke, looking at him out the corner of his eye.

Harry nodded thoughtfully, remembering all the emotions that he’d felt in the moments after killing Voldemort – he’d felt so tired, and hollow, and alone, and so fucking afraid.

“Well, I’d just died, so I think it’s understandable.” Harry joked, and could have slapped himself – it was the sort of joke he’d make with Ron or Hermione – people who knew the truth about the night in the forest.

“I don’t know why everybody makes such a big fuss about you coming back from the dead, Potter. After all, it’s not as though you actually died, is it?” Malfoy said it like he knew the answer already, like he was expecting Harry to agree with him, like it was ridiculous that people could believe he’d died. But Harry said nothing, not sure if he wanted to let Malfoy in on this secret.

“You didn’t, did you?” His voice was thin and tight. “Harry?”

It was the use of his first name that shocked Harry into replying – he and Malfoy so rarely used their given names in this strange friendship of theirs.

“I thought your mum might have told you what happened that night.” He said quietly.

“No, she didn’t.” Malfoy sounded put out, and Harry wondered if he resented that his mother had this connection with Harry that she hadn’t shared with him, her own son.

“He cast the killing curse on me. Again. Except this time, it worked.” Harry’s voice shook with the memories, and he instinctively put his fingers to the pulse point on his throat (as he always did when he remembered that night), reassured only by the beating of his heart. You came back, he said to himself, as he always did. You came back.

Harry didn’t know how to explain it without mentioning the Horcruxes, but he had to try. “I died. I saw Dumbledore. And then I came back, and your mother lied to him. She saved my life by telling him I was dead, and all because she wanted to save you.”

Malfoy looked at him with wide, grey eyes, his pale lips tightly pressed together.

“You died and came back to life? Jesus Christ!”

The sound of the muggle curse coming out of Malfoy’s pureblood lips, and the irony that it was Christ he’d chosen, made Harry smile, and then, uncontrollably, he laughed. Either Malfoy understood the joke, or Harry’s laugh was contagious, because Malfoy started to laugh too, and they stood there, laughing, in front of the war portrait until they heard Seamus’ magically magnified voice rattling through the maze, starting the auction.


	8. Into the darkness they go

Harry and Malfoy made their way through the thronging crowd to the front, joining Ron and Hermione, who shared a smirking glance before greeting them with smiles. Dean and Seamus worked their way through countless pieces of artwork, one of which included a portrait of Diagon Alley, which Ron and Hermione bought, before reaching a beautiful set of magical photographs taken at the previous art gala, just a few months ago. 

Dean held up each photo as Seamus described it – each photo was taken with care, capturing private moments between friends or lovers. One lovely photo showed Ron hugging Hermione from behind, chin resting on her bushy head, both smiling widely and laughing at what Harry knew to be himself, just out of view. Another photo, more striking, showed Harry and Malfoy stood side by side, heads bent towards each other, chatting enthusiastically, faces relaxed.

Harry saw Malfoy’s face light up as Dean flicked through the photos, and smiled to himself – the game was on; this was the piece he and Malfoy would playfully fight over. 

Usually Malfoy was as relaxed and amused as Harry was about the out-bidding, but that didn’t seem to be the case this evening. As Harry outbid Malfoy for the fourth time over the photographs, and Malfoy’s lips turned down for a moment, Harry realised perhaps Malfoy was more emotionally invested in the photographs than he’d thought. 

Thinking quickly as Malfoy made his next bid, Harry shrugged when Dean and Malfoy turned to him, waiting for him to wave his paddle. 

“Probably shouldn’t spend any more of my salary in one night!” Harry joked, and everyone around them laughed. Malfoy smiled brightly at him as he signed the paper Seamus held out to him. 

“Can you do me a favour?” Harry whispered to Malfoy as the bidding for the next item started. 

“Well that depends on the favour, doesn’t it, Potter?” Malfoy replied, but he was still smiling, so Harry was hopeful. 

“Can you spare the photo of Ron and Hermione? I doubt you’ll want that hanging up in your flat.”

“Well, I suppose I can manage that. That’s the only photo you’re getting for free, though!” Malfoy teased, and Harry smiled back, pleased – Ron and Hermione would love the photo, and this way Malfoy got to keep whatever photos had so inspired him. 

The next item up was the painting he and Malfoy had looked at earlier, and Harry was determined to have it. He started out bidding against several Ministry workers, along with several people who’d fought that night, but, to his great relief, the painting was finally his, albeit for a rather large price. 

Seamus announced that the painter had requested to remain anonymous, which Harry could understand – it was a slightly controversial thing to paint. But Harry couldn’t help but notice Seamus wink at Malfoy as the next item was being brought out, and Malfoy flushed slightly, seemingly nodding his thanks back at Seamus. 

Harry froze – had Malfoy painted it? It would explain why he’d want it to be sold anonymously, as presumably some older Ministry people might still be biased against Malfoy for his past, and additionally Ron would never let Malfoy forget that he was technically an ‘artiste’. It would also explain why Malfoy had been stood in front of it for ages, but had shown no interest in buying it. 

Harry was still thinking about the painting several minutes later as a brief break was announced. Harry was about to ask Malfoy about it when he saw Susan Darling across the crowd, cheerily downing a glass of wine while chatting to the people beside her. Harry was struck by how casually she was behaving, compared to the prim and almost restrained woman he’d met the day before. He grabbed Malfoy’s arm, ignoring the sour look Malfoy gave him as he spilled his champagne slightly. 

“Two o’clock.” Harry hissed in his ear. “That’s Susan, the woman I mentioned yesterday.” 

“She looks perfectly normal, Potter.” 

“She’s totally different tonight. I know people are different out of work, but this is ridiculous.” Harry gestured, small hand movements, to Susan, who was now trying to catch pieces of food in her mouth that her friends were throwing to her. 

“Oh, good catch!” Malfoy whispered, distracted, and then caught himself. “What are you saying, Potter?” 

“I don’t know, but I think we need to talk to her. Look, she’s heading to the drinks table, you need a refill, don’t you?” Harry asked, snatching Malfoy’s glass and downing the rest, grinning at Malfoy’s sigh of impatience. 

They headed quickly to where Susan was queuing to collect another glass. Harry carefully collided gently with her shoulder, immediately apologising profusely. To his confusion, she didn’t seem to recognise him as someone she’d met before, instead blushing and ducking her head when she saw who had bumped into her. He spoke to her for a moment, flashing several hand signals at Malfoy behind his back. Malfoy stepped into the conversation, distracting Susan as Harry searched for any signs of magic around her. 

Freezing in horror, he completely forgot his manners as he grabbed Malfoy’s arm and pulled him off towards a quiet corner. Interrupting Malfoy’s frustrated complaint, Harry leant in. 

“It’s the Imperius, Malfoy!”

“What?” Malfoy, horrified, spoke too loud. 

“Quiet!” Harry snapped. “She’s been cursed with the Imperius recently, and more than once. And some kind of memory charm, too.”

Both men were silent and still as they took this in. 

“That explains the behavioural changes.” 

“And why she didn’t recognise me just now.” 

“You know what this means, don’t you?” 

“Yeah. She might be the one killing werewolves, but without even knowing it.” 

“Shit.” Malfoy swore as both men twisted to watch Susan subtly. 

“What the hell do we do?” 

“I think we need to tell Granger.” 

“And Ron – he’s strategic and tactical planning, he’ll have a good idea or two.” 

Malfoy nodded his head in agreement, too busy thinking to even make a dig about Ron, and watched as Harry flagged Ron and Hermione down – they’d been chatting with Neville and Luna, but had stopped to watch Harry and Malfoy fly across the room away from Susan. 

Harry and Malfoy detailed the advancements in their case for Ron and Hermione, finishing with Harry’s suspicions about Susan the day before and their discovery of the Imperius curse this evening. Both Ron and Hermione were silent throughout, but Harry could read from their faces that they were equally concerned. 

“What do we do, Hermione?” Harry implored her for an answer, and was surprised when Malfoy asked Ron for his advice. 

“We obviously can’t arrest her in front of everybody – it will upset Dean and Seamus, and besides, she probably isn’t aware of anything, so she’ll cause a scene, which will make the Ministry look bad, and it’ll traumatise Susan.” 

“Hermione’s right – causing a scene will let the person behind everything know we’re onto them. We have the upper hand at the moment, and we have to keep it that way.” 

“So we need to get her alone, then?” 

“I have an idea, but we’ll need help from Dean or Seamus.” Malfoy suggested, and after a few moments, the others agreed, seeing the urgency in the situation. Malfoy outlined his plan. 

Hermione ran off to find Dean, and the three men went to find the empty room Malfoy had mentioned. A few minutes later, Dean led Hermione and Susan in, talking cheerfully about a painting they might be interested. Ron gave him a quick thumbs up and ushered him out as Hermione gently invited Susan to sit down with Harry and Malfoy and then she joined Ron just outside the door. Harry knew they were still listening, but their presence would have worried Susan more than this interview already might.

“Hi, Susan. We have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind?”

“I just have a few follow up questions from our chat yesterday.” Harry added. 

Susan’s face was blank for a long moment, and then, as though surfacing from deep under water, her face cleared and she nodded, relaxing into her chair, more at ease, but still not making eye contact.

“So, Susan. We’re interviewing everybody again and asking for a few more details that may help us with our case.” This was a lie, although Susan wouldn’t know that; Harry felt bad for lying to her, but it was his job to find out everything he could. 

“Can you tell us anything about these dates? Perhaps you noticed something or somebody strange around the Ministry?” Malfoy pushed a slip of parchment across the table to Susan, and Harry caught a glimpse of the paper as Susan picked it up – it was a list of the dates of the werewolf murders. 

Susan looked at it a long time, working her way down each date and thinking hard about each one. Her face grew more pinched as the seconds dragged on, and both men watched her fingers start twitching. 

“I don’t…I don’t remember anything strange about those dates, no.” 

“You don’t remember anything strange? Or you don’t remember anything at all?” 

Susan’s eyes flicked up and looked straight at Harry for the first time since sitting down, caught off guard. Harry’s voice had been to sharp, too keen - Harry imagined a dog with its hackles raised – that was the feeling he got as Susan stared at him, defensive. 

“Are you experiencing memory blanks? Losing periods of time?” Malfoy’s voice was soft and sympathetic, non-judgemental. 

He was always better at this than Harry – he knew the right words to say, the right tone of voice to use. Harry was relentless (Malfoy had once called him a bloodhound) – he’d do anything to find the truth, to stop the bad guys – emotions, his or anyone else’s, rarely came into it. This difference in character was partly why they worked so well together.

“Yes... how did you know?” 

“It’s part of what we’re investigating.” Another lie, this one from Malfoy. “Can you tell us anything about your lost time?”

“It’s terrifying!” Susan burst into tears, and Malfoy left his seat, knelt down beside her chair. “Sometimes I find myself just standing somewhere, no idea where I am!” 

“It’s OK, Susan. You can trust us.” 

Her crying petered out and she started to speak, telling them about the times she’d ‘woken up’ in a strange place, no idea how she got there, or when she’d realised she was missing hours of her life, or, the worst, when she’d found blood on her hands but didn’t know whose it was. 

Telling them about it seemed to help – she became less emotional and more factual as she talked, eventually pulling out an envelope that she said contained a list of all the times and dates she was missing. 

“I think I’m going to go home now, if that’s alright. I’m rather tired.” She finally said, standing up, smoothing down her clothes, rearranging her hair, wiping away dried tears. 

“Of course. You’ve been a great help, Susan. Would you be able to come to our office on Monday morning to run some tests?” Harry asked. 

She agreed, and turned to leave. Just as she reached the door Malfoy spoke. 

“Susan. It might help you to see someone – just to talk. I can get you an appointment with Luna Lovegood, if you’d like. She’s helped me out, I’m sure she’d be happy to see you too.” 

Harry looked at Malfoy, surprised, as Susan nodded and left the room, saying a quiet goodbye to Hermione and Ron. 

“I didn’t know you’ve been to see Luna?”

Busying himself with collecting up papers, Malfoy replied. “I don’t tell you everything, you know, Potter.” 

“I know. It’s just…I see her, too.” 

Both men looked at each other for a second, and Harry felt a strange heat in his chest as he realised he and Malfoy had yet more in common with each other. 

“That was useful, wasn’t it?” Ron barged into the room, and Malfoy blinked, looking away. 

“We’ve certainly got a lot to be getting on with.” Hermione agreed, following at a slower pace. 

“I agree. Potter and I can work tomorrow – we’ll look at matching the dates, and then try and work out who has had access to Susan.” 

Harry frowned at having to work on the weekend, but he had nothing better planned, and he knew he couldn’t complain.

“We should have somebody outside her home, too, so we know where she is.”

“And don’t forget, boys, we still haven’t found Cressida Boone, yet, either.” 

“Bloody hell, this case is getting more complicated by the day, isn’t it?” 

“Thanks for helping, you two, I know it isn’t officially your case.” 

“Nonsense, Harry, we’re always here to help. Besides, anything to do with werewolves is my job.” 

“And catching Dark wizards is mine.” Ron added. “Maybe I should get assigned officially to your case, make it a bit easier for us to work together.” 

“That’s a good idea, actually, Weasley. We could do with the extra manpower since this case seems to be spreading in several directions at once.” 

“I’ll do that on Monday then, and if you send over all your Cressida notes I’ll have a look this weekend.” 

Having finalised their plans for the next few days, the four went their separate ways – Ron and Hermione returned home, as Hermione was starting to get tired and a little sick from her pregnancy, and, according to Ron, there was “no decent food here”. 

Harry went back to his flat, agreeing to meet Malfoy at work at 9am the next morning. 

As he showered and brushed his teeth, still thinking of Malfoy and their ever complicated case, Harry felt something stirring deep inside him. He felt as though he was walking, step by step, into something he couldn't see – like he was getting involved with something, or things, beyond his understanding.


	9. We are ashes and dust

Monday morning came and went with no sign of Susan Darling, and Harry and Malfoy grew worried. They ate lunch in their office, hoping she was just late, but with no luck. They’d received no message from the Auror stationed outside her home since the night before, and after checking the entry logs for the building they discovered Susan hadn’t come into work that morning.

And so Harry and Malfoy found themselves in the outskirts of London as the afternoon drew to a close, knocking on Susan’s front door. There was no answer, and the door swung open when pushed, no longer locked. Sharing a worried glance, both men cautiously stepped inside the house, Malfoy drawing his wand, Harry letting a spell bloom in his fingertips. 

“Ah, shit.” Harry swore, bumping into Malfoy in his haste to step backwards. Malfoy edged around him and swore too as he saw what had distressed Harry – the motionless body of junior Auror Alison slumped at the foot of the stairs. Part of her blonde hair was stained a dark cherry red and her face was bloody and bruised.

Both men stared for a second, and then, slowly, afraid of what they might find, they made their way up the stairs, stepping over the body. They walked through the hallway towards the only open doorway. Pausing at the doorway, they snapped on latex gloves – Harry had strongly campaigned for better on-scene conduct for Aurors, taking cues from Muggle police. Aurors actually used fingerprinting and DNA evidence now, which Harry considered a minor miracle.

“Fucking hell.” Harry closed his eyes, but it was too late - the scene before him was burned into brain, and he couldn’t shake the image of Susan Darling bound to her bed. 

Harry opened his eyes to see Malfoy standing over the body, looking like he might throw up. Harry unwillingly joined him and stared down at Susan’s naked dead body. Deep wounds marked her abdomen, arms and legs, blood pooled and congealing on the sheets beneath her. One eye had been cut out, placed on the pillow beside her, and her throat had been slashed. Harry ran his fingers through the air above her body, identifying the Sectumsempra curse on most of the wounds except her throat and eye, which had seemingly been done by a knife.

Neither said anything for a long time. Harry didn’t know what Malfoy was thinking, but he couldn’t help but feel responsible – someone must have known they’d interviewed Susan again, and had killed her before she could talk. She had suffered for a long time before she’d died – there had been an immense amount of pain, he was sure. Finally, he forced himself to look away.

An hour later found Harry and Malfoy watching men and women dressed in white taking away Susan’s body while others collected samples from the scene. 

“Potter. Look.” Malfoy gestured to the other side of the large double bed Susan had died in. Harry looked dumbly for a moment, before he realised. 

“Both sides are slept in.”

“And both bedside tables are used.” Malfoy slicked his finger across the left table, showing Harry the lack of dust. He pulled open the drawers and gingerly held up a pack of condoms, eyebrow raised as he met Harry’s gaze. Harry felt himself flushing inexplicably as he poked around. There was surely something inappropriate in the way Malfoy had held out the condoms to him, suggestively, Harry felt, but he couldn’t bring himself to vocalise that thought.

“Ugh. There’s a used condom in the wastepaper bin. Looks recent – must have been here in the last twenty-four hours or so.” Harry grimaced. “So we know she was having a sexual, and perhaps romantic, relationship with someone. And we can guess by the condoms that it’s a man, although there’s no significant other listed in her file.”

“There’s no third body, so we can assume he wasn’t killed. We were the first to find this crime scene, so we know it hasn’t been reported by anybody. And it’s, what, seven, seven-thirty? Work day is long finished, but no-one’s interrupted us. The contents of the drawers and wardrobe suggest he lives here. So where is he?” 

Both thought for a moment, stillness in the midst of the chaos surrounding them as people buzzed in and out of the room. The realisation dawned on Harry, and he covered his mouth with his hands instinctively.

“He’s on the run. He’s the one that did this.” 

“But why would Susan’s…” Malfoy flailed for a word. “Lover want to murder her?” 

“Because she realised what he was doing to her. It’s the only explanation.” Harry felt sick, he could feel his stomach roiling at the thought of what she’d experienced. Malfoy closed his eyes, imagining the scene before him.

“So she realises he’s the one casting memory charms on her – she confronts him, and he kills her.”

“Tortures her and then kills her.” Harry corrected. “Perhaps he wanted to know what she told us. And then he killed her to shut her up. Or perhaps she just outlived her usefulness.”

They were silent for a long while, each imagining the horror Susan must have felt to realise the man she trusted was using her, and the pain she must have felt before she died.

“We need to get back to the Ministry and tell Granger and Weasley.” 

***

Hermione actually did throw up after they all watched their memories of the scene, and Harry couldn’t blame her. 

“That level of torture…” Malfoy hesitated. “It wasn’t just for information – Susan wasn’t an Auror, she wasn’t trained to resist torture, she would have cracked long before he needed to cut out her eye.”

“He’s a bloody psychopath, whoever the hell he is.” Ron spat as he carefully tied Hermione’s hair out of her face as she retched, his words and facial expression at odds with the gentleness of his actions. His ease at handling her mane of hair as she vomited spoke volumes of how the first months of her pregnancy were treating her.

“He’s certainly a cold-blooded killer – Susan and Alison mark the 13th and 14th of his kills that we know about. The first ten are werewolves from the Northumberland pack, and another two that you two believe are his, but haven’t identified yet.” Hermione resurfaced from under the table, face pale, sweaty, but determined. 

“Forensics should find DNA and fingerprints at the scene, so we can at least see if they match a Ministry official.” Harry said. It was an unpleasant thought, but it was certainly true that Susan’s killer could be a fellow Ministry official.

“In the meantime, I did some research and I think I found a locator spell that should help us find Cressida Boone.” Ron produced a large, dusty book from his bag and Hermione beamed up at him, delighted, as he handed it over to Harry and Malfoy to peruse.

“Like wife, like husband, I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise.” Malfoy said, but he was half-smiling as he bent over the book. Harry curled his head in beside him and flushed as he could feel the warmth of Malfoy’s breath against his cheek – it felt strangely intimate and almost uncomfortable, although Harry couldn’t work out why. 

“It’ll take a while to get the ingredients ready for the spell, so I suggest you three go home, collect a change of clothes, maybe get some sleep.”

“What about you?” 

“I always keep a spare set of clothes here, Potter. I like to be prepared for anything.” Malfoy replied primly. “And besides, the techs will probably need help setting up the potions and charms, and I’m best qualified for that.” 

Harry couldn’t argue with that, nor did he really want to, so he turned and stepped through the fireplace into his flat. 

***

It was well past midnight by the time the spell was ready to be cast, and Harry, who hadn’t found time to sleep yet, was exhausted. Hermione had brewed a strong pot of coffee for the four of them (the only culinary skill she had) and Harry had had two mugs already. 

As the four young adults stood in a circle around a Portkey and a large map of England, Harry had a sinking feeling that whatever came next would be bad – it might be the coffee, he knew, but there was a bitter taste in his mouth and his heart was fluttering. Hermione and Ron finished reciting the spell and the Portkey glowed, turning everything upside down as the group flew halfway across the country. 

Harry hit the ground with a thump, rolling onto his stomach with a groan just in time for Malfoy to land on top of him. Both men threw themselves apart with grunts of embarrassment as Hermione fell to the floor, stomach shielded by Ron. They all picked themselves up, brushing dirt and dust as they took in their surroundings. 

“This isn’t a good sign.” 

“I think we might be looking for a body.” Hermione agreed, peering through the darkness into the wide stretches of field surrounding them. 

“I reckon it’s safe to light a Lumos or two, don’t you?” Ron lit his wand up. Malfoy and Hermione quickly followed suit as Harry patted his back pocket, reassured that his wand was still there after his tumble. The Elder Wand was tucked up his sleeve, as always. 

The light revealed a ditch roughly thirty feet ahead of them, and the four hesitantly made their way towards it, expecting the worst but hoping for the best. As they drew close, Ron recoiled, covering his nose. The other three were slower to recognise the stench, unable to separate it from usual countryside smells, but they soon caught on. 

“Jesus Christ.” Hermione whispered as she stared down into the ditch, carefully pushing several bramble bushes out of the way to reveal Cressida Boone’s dead and decaying body.

Both her eyes were missing, and her throat had been slashed in the same way Susan’s had. It was impossible to tell in the dark if she’d been subjected to the Sectumsempra too, but Harry would bet she had. As he caught Malfoy’s eye in the gloom, he knew Malfoy was thinking the same.

Harry swore suddenly, turning away. “How long has she been here while we faffed about doing fuck all?” 

“It’s not our fault, Potter. She was likely dead before the case ever ended up on our desks.”

“That’s not the point, Malfoy! I know we couldn’t have saved her life but we could have saved her from this!” Harry gestured wildly to her body lying in the murky ditch water and, to his horror, burst into tears. Embarrassed, he wiped his tears away angrily, refusing to look at Malfoy. Hermione and Ron had drawn away to contact forensics, and to give them some much needed space. 

“We’re here now, aren’t we?” 

“It’s too late!” Harry was no longer crying – he was shouting. He didn’t know why he was so upset – he’d never even met Cressida. But he was sleep deprived, and he’d had enough of finding mutilated bodies. He’d read pages of her notes, heard her voice, understood her thoughts, and besides, nobody deserved to decompose in a ditch thousands of miles from their home. 

He felt so much rage welling up inside him at the thought of the serial killer roaming free somewhere, blood on his hands. He span in a wide circle and punched his fist into the trunk of a tree looming in the dark. The pain shot through him and, relieved at the clarity of it, he punched again. 

“Harry!” Hermione cried out from behind him, voice shrill with shock, quickly followed by Ron’s shout.

Ignoring them, he punched a third time and felt something crack inside his fist. He raised his fist to punch a fourth time. Hands grabbed his shoulders and span him around, pulling him into a rough embrace. 

Harry raised his fists to push Ron away from him, pissed, but as he did, he took a deep breath and froze still. The scent of citrus surrounded him – Malfoy. Malfoy’s arms were wrapped tight around Harry, holding him against the warmth of his chest. Harry found himself relaxing into Malfoy’s arms, resting his forehead against his shoulder, shaking with adrenaline. 

Malfoy said nothing, and Harry, too, was silent as they hugged, until Ron reluctantly cleared his voice. 

“Forensics are on the way. We should get back to Ministry.” 

Harry pulled away from Malfoy, embarrassed and awkward, but Malfoy had already turned away, picking up the Portkey and holding it out to Hermione and Ron. Trying not to feel disappointed for some reason, Harry reached out and they all spun upside down.


	10. Thunder and flash together

Harry sat across the table from Malfoy, Ron and Hermione, fists tightly clenched. He’d finally slept, although not well; he’d been in such a state after finding Cressida’s body that no-one had been willing to leave him alone, and so he hadn’t returned to his flat. Instead, he’d slept on the sofa at Hermione and Ron’s. 

They watched him now with wary eyes – he had calmed down, but he was still jittery, filled with nerves, scared to start this conversation, to let another friend use the stone. It was his idea, to talk to Susan – a lead, maybe the only one they had. But it didn’t mean he liked it.

Ron had used the stone, once, after the war, and it had been terrible. He’d wanted to speak to Fred, to say goodbye, but when Harry took back the stone Ron had become distraught, shouting and screaming and crying. He’d tried to kill himself, to join Fred, and only Hermione’s quick thinking had saved his life. 

That night had shown him the true danger of using the stone, and it had terrified all three of them. Hermione and Ron hated being near the stone – they were only here now to make sure neither Harry nor Malfoy got caught in its spell.

“Malfoy. You have to understand…this is confidential. It’s a secret, it’s...”

“Merlin, Potter, what’s all the pomp and circumstance about? You told me you had a lead, so get on with it!” 

Reluctantly, Harry held out his left fist (his right still ached from the night before despite all the healing spells) and unfurled his fingers, revealing a small black stone sitting neatly in the palm of his hand. Ron turned away suddenly, and Hermione gripped his hand tighter. 

Malfoy’s face barely changed as he stared down at Harry’s hand for a long moment before looking back into his face, expressionless. His face was blank, but Harry could see his eyes, steely and cold.

“That’s the Resurrection Stone, isn’t it? The third Deathly Hallow.” 

“Yes.”

“You said you didn’t know anything about it.” 

“I didn’t say anything, actually. You interpreted my silence yourself.” Harry regretted it as he said it – it was sarcastic and rude – totally not appropriate, but Malfoy ignored it, face changing in a blink of an eye as he realised. His eyes lit up.

“Do you realise how much this could have change everything? We can solve all our cases so much quicker!” Malfoy reached out his hand to touch it, but Harry panicked, pulling his hand away, suddenly pale and sweating. 

“No! Wait!” He stumbled over his words, trying to line them up. “You don’t understand. It’s dangerous…it’s evil.” 

Malfoy pulled his own hand back and seemed to realise for the first time that Hermione and Ron were now both watching Harry’s face keenly, barely blinking, watching and waiting for something. 

Harry continued, heart in his throat, ringing in his ears. He could already feel the compulsion to call up his parents, Sirius and Remus. He shook his head like a dog shaking off water, but the feeling didn’t lessen.

“You can’t just use it whenever you want. It infects you. It…I dream of it at night, I think about it all day.” Harry clenched his fists together and rubbed his eyes. “You’ve heard the story, Malfoy. It wasn’t a gift, it was a curse!” Harry turned to Hermione, imploring her to step in. 

“Death gave it to the second brother to ensure his eventual demise. The stone lured him to his death, and countless since. Using it is highly dangerous - I believe it is partly to blame for Dumbledore going to his death so calmly – he wished to reunite with his sister.” 

“It’s impossible to resist.” Ron added, voice low and quiet. Hermione gripped his hand tighter.

“How’s Potter managed it, then?” Malfoy snapped, rudely, angrily. Harry thought that perhaps his anger was at Harry’s lies and secrets, not that Harry hadn’t used the Stone for their cases. There was a faint pink-ish hue to Malfoy’s pale cheeks. Harry didn’t know if it was anger, or excitement, or something else entirely.

“I don’t know. Maybe because I have all three – I’m Master of Death, maybe.” Harry paused. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy though. I’ve only used it three times, and every time it hurts so much.” 

Malfoy’s face softened momentarily as Harry’s voice broke. 

“I can’t let you use it, though. It has to be me. I’m sorry.” 

“Fine, Potter.” Perhaps because Malfoy’s parents lived in Azkaban and France respectively, and because the friends he’d lost in the war were long dead, Malfoy seemed sincere. He had no interest in using the stone himself - he was watching Harry now, not the stone. His eyes were still cold.

Harry closed his eyes and turned the stone over three times in his palm, breath caught in his throat – he’d never before called anyone he didn’t love, and he didn’t know if it would work.

He heard Malfoy gasp, and opened his eyes. Before them stood a silvery, shimmery figure of a woman. 

Harry greeted the figure, recognising Susan, but there was no response as she turned in circles, looking around the room.

Malfoy had yet to say anything, instead staring wide-eyed at the ghost-like figure in the centre of the room. Ron had his eyes closed tightly (Harry knew he was hearing Fred’s voice, the same way he was hearing his parents crying, Remus and Sirius whispering his name) and Hermione was writing notes. Harry couldn’t imagine what she could possibly have to write about yet, but that was Hermione through and through.

“Aurors Potter and Malfoy! What happened?” Susan’s voice finally rang out, echoing through the small room. 

Harry prepared himself to answer, unsure of what exactly to tell her, when she wailed. Her silvery form collapsed in half, and Harry realised she’d dropped to the ground in a crouch. She’d remembered what had happened to her.

“That bastard! That slimy, disgusting evil bastard!” Susan shouted, and Harry as amazed to hear her raise her voice for the first time in their interactions. She clearly remembered everything, or at least enough. 

“Who is he, Susan?” Harry asked, excited at the possibility of getting a new lead. “We know you were romantically involved with him, and he killed you because you realised he was using to you kill werewolves.”

“Harry!” Hermione hissed, frowning at his insensitivity as Susan wailed again. 

“He made me kill all those people! And then he made me forget!”

“We know, Susan. We don’t blame you. But we need to know who he is so we can stop him killing anyone else.” Malfoy took over, giving Harry a warning glare as he opened his mouth to reply. 

Harry probably deserved it (he hadn’t been especially kind to the recently deceased Susan) but he was fairly sure he didn’t deserve the sharp kick under the table that accompanied it.

“His name is Herman. I met him a few years ago.” Susan continued to explain, in great detail, everything she knew about him. 

There wasn’t much – he’d practically shredded her memory with the constant charms, and the trauma of her death didn’t help, but they got a name, and an age, and a general description. It was enough to go on.

After she disappeared, the four discussed for some time, rereading Hermione’s notes, working out new angles for the case, but eventually, they grew tired and it was time to leave.

“Coming, Harry?” Hermione asked, pausing at the door. Harry nodded, pushing back his chair, but Malfoy stopped him, arm held out in front of his chest, close, but not touching.

“He’s staying here, Granger.” 

Hermione’s eyes shot to the stone clenched in Harry’s fist. 

“Malfoy, I can’t leave you here with Harry and the stone. It’s too dangerous.” Hermione made to come back into the room, worried, but he stopped her. 

“I don’t care about the bloody stone, Granger.” His voice was calm and quiet, but both Harry and Hermione could feel the anger underlying. Harry winced, and Hermione made a sympathetic face as she darted out the room to follow Ron, who was whistling, obliviously, down the hall. 

Harry sat back down. Malfoy was upset about the lie, clearly, and the best thing to do was sit it out. 

“You lied to me. Again.” Malfoy’s voice was sharp and cold, and very intentionally flat.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy, but…” 

“But what? I’m your partner, aren’t I?” Malfoy wouldn’t make eye contact with Harry. 

“Of course you are! It’s just the Resurrection Stone, Malfoy. I told you about the Wand, didn’t I?”

“No! You didn’t! You didn’t tell me about it for three years, Potter! 

“That’s different. I had to know you could be trusted.” Even as he said it, Harry realised it was a mistake. Malfoy’s pale cheeks reddened and his voice almost squeaked as he fought to keep it low and even.

“I’m going to ignore how stupidly offensive that was, Potter, and instead ask you this – how can I trust you if you keep lying to me?” 

Harry tried to answer, but Malfoy interrupted him again. 

“The Wand, the Stone, the Cloak a few years ago. You didn’t even tell me you’d died, Potter! That seems like the sort of thing you might have mentioned once or twice, don’t you think?” 

“That wasn’t a lie, it was just…an omission?” 

“How many other lies have you told me?” Malfoy didn’t seem to hear him. 

“I…Well…None.” Harry’s panicked lie wasn’t believable, though – Malfoy could see right through him. 

“Why the hell are you so fucking secretive?” Malfoy was furious all of a sudden, his deliberate coldness and calm deteriorated in an instant. 

Harry, shocked, reared back, suddenly indignant. How dare Malfoy demand all of his deepest secrets? How dare Malfoy demand transparency and truth when secrets had saved Harry’s life and won the war?

“Of course I’m fucking secretive!” Harry shouted back, slamming his hands against the table. “Do you have any idea what I went through, Malfoy? What I suffered?” 

Malfoy opened his mouth to reply, but Harry was on a roll now, he was finally talking about everything that had happened to him, and he didn’t want to hear whatever Malfoy had to say. 

“I’ve seen countless of my friends and family die right in front of me! My parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, Cedric, Dobby, and that’s all before the war really even started! I was abused and tortured by my muggle relatives, by Umbridge, by Voldemort himself! I was on the run being hunted for a year! I was forced to become a cold blooded murderer! I died! I sacrificed myself because I trusted Dumbledore and he led me like a lamb to the slaughter! The only people in the world I could trust to have my back were Ron and Hermione. After all that, why should I believe it’s any different now?” 

Malfoy’s face was frozen in shock. It was the most open and honest Harry had ever been with him about the war – usually Harry brushed off his questions, or made a passing comment but refused to explain it. 

Harry stared at him, breathing hard and fast, palms stinging. He’d said more than he’d meant to, and he could only hope Malfoy wouldn’t notice his careless slips. But he wasn’t so lucky. Of course he wasn’t.

“Why?” 

“Why what?” Harry snapped. 

“Why would Dumbledore want you to sacrifice yourself? Without you the war wouldn’t have been won.” 

“Without my death, the war wouldn’t have been won.” Harry paused. “There was a prophecy, the one your father tried to get at the end of fifth year, at the Ministry. ‘Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.’ It had to be me. I had to die so he would.” 

“That doesn’t explain anything. It doesn’t make sense.” Malfoy had flinched at the reminder of his father, and Harry would have felt sorry for him, if he wasn’t so busy feeling sorry for himself. 

“You’re right, it doesn’t. There’s more, but I can’t, and won’t, ever tell you. If you want to be my partner…and my friend, you’ll have to accept that.”

They stared at each other, neither backing down – Harry refusing to speak about the Horcruxes, and Malfoy refusing to accept more secrets. After long minutes of a silent and tense standoff, Malfoy nodded, looking unhappy but resigned. 

“I can accept that. For now. But only that – I won’t ever be lied to again, Potter. I had enough of that in the war.” Malfoy stood and swung open the door in one smooth movement. “And Harry, it is different now – I’ve got your back, too.” 

Before Harry could process his words, he vanished out the door and down the hallway, leaving Harry to sit on his own, still clutching the whispering stone in his tightly clenched fists. Although the whispering had never been louder, Harry couldn’t hear it, instead hearing over and over Malfoy calling him Harry.


	11. On fire from within

The next morning found Harry and his friends bent crooked over piles of parchment, tired, achy, and more than a little short-tempered. It had been a long night of fruitless research, and Harry’s argument with Malfoy loomed over them – Malfoy was still a little sour. Harry was still on edge, too, but for different reasons – he suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of Malfoy being pissed at him, and he was desperate to fix it.

“Good god, Granger, your hair has a life of its own!” Malfoy snapped, waving her frizzy hair out of his face. 

Hermione didn’t bother to reply, instead continuing to flick through the files of Hermans with criminal records, to no avail.

“Hermione, we’ve got nothing, we’ve got to try something else.” 

“Harry’s right, ‘Mione, he obviously doesn’t have a criminal record.”

“Well, there must be a way to find him! What about looking through old Ministry records to find children of Ministry officials?”

“That’d be no help, it’d take too long and we might not even find him. We might as well try asking McGonagall, she’s been around so long!” Harry joked, and he and Ron snorted at the idea of the Headmistress as a crime fighter, but Hermione shot up out of her seat. 

“That’s it! Harry, well done!” She planted a kiss on his forehead and darted out the door. The three men listened to her shoes tap-tapping down the hallway in stunned silence.

“Isn’t she going to explain where she’s going?” Malfoy, baffled, asked a proud but confused Ron, steadfastly ignoring Harry.

“Nah, I reckon we’ll find out when she gets back.”

“She does this all the time, you get used to it.” 

Ron and Harry grinned at each other, amused at the memories of tiny eleven year old Hermione rushing around with books and talking a mile a minute while they waited in suspense. 

Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes later Hermione ran back into the room clutching several large envelopes. She distributed one each to Harry, Ron and Malfoy, keeping the largest for herself, looking pleased with herself as she sat back down. 

“Hermione, what on earth are these?”

“Oh, sorry! I spoke to McGonagall and she sent me the files of everybody who studied at Hogwarts in the last thirty years.” 

“These are all Hogwarts students?” Gobsmacked, Ron poked his envelope with dismay, looking as though it might combust spontaneously. Harry viewed his own package with similar suspicion.

“Oh, no, sorry, Ron, you’ve got Durmstrang, Harry, you’ve got Ilvermorny and Malfoy has Beauxbatons.” Without waiting for them to reply, Hermione buried her head in the large pile of parchments and began rapidly flicking through them, making notes. 

Ron and Harry shrugged at each other, and turned to their own piles, steeling themselves. Malfoy leaned towards Harry.

“Is she serious? She managed all that in under twenty minutes?” He hissed, wide-eyed. Harry saw Hermione smile to herself through all her hair. Triumphant with Malfoy’s eyes finally on him, Harry replied. 

“Of course she did – don’t you know yet there’s nothing she can’t do?” 

Time passed in a blur of paper cuts and ink stains, until finally Ron spoke up, looking unimpressed. 

“No Hermans went to Durmstrang, although I did see our dear old Vicky’s file.” 

“Vicky?” Malfoy whispered under his breath to Harry, who replied with a smirk. 

“Viktor Krum. Ron hasn’t liked him since he took Hermione to the Yule Ball, remember?” 

Malfoy nodded, looking almost amused, and they returned to Ron and Hermione’s conversation.

“Ronald, you can’t call him Vicky forever, you know.”

“I can and I will.” Ron replied stubbornly, tips of his ears turning pink, and Harry, sensing the possibility of an argument, interrupted. 

“Four Hermans at Ilvermorny, but only two are possibilities – one is dead, and another lives in New York.” 

“None at Beauxbatons.” 

“I’m not surprised – doesn’t seem a fancy enough name for them, does it?” 

“You’re right, Potter, we should expect better from serial killers in the future.”

Harry stuck his tongue out at Malfoy, half elated to finally have gotten a joke out of him, and half embarrassed it had taken such a stupid comment to do it. Malfoy rolled his eyes back at him, cracking a tiny smile. Preoccupied with each other, neither man saw Hermione and Ron sigh and share a glance. 

“Anyway, there are quite a few Hogwarts alumni named Herman, but one was of particular interest to me.” Hermione held out a piece of parchment with a school photograph clipped to the top. “Herman Bellchant, Slytherin. He was several years younger than Snape, but it says here they served a few detentions together.” 

There was a few seconds of tense silence. 

“Snape obviously had the chance to teach Herman the Sectumsempra, then.” 

Malfoy was looking pale, or at least paler than usual. 

“What is it, Malfoy?”

“Severus once mentioned a house mate of his named Bellchant, said he was a real piece of work.” He looked horrified, turning to face Harry with wide eyes. “If I’d known he was still around….” 

“You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.” 

***

An hour and a lot of disgust later and the four knew everything there was to know about Herman Bellchant. 

“He’s only gotten worse since leaving Hogwarts, look at this – his sister married a werewolf, and they both died only a few months later. Bet he had a hand in that.” Ron said darkly, holding out a newspaper clipping to Hermione, who frowned at it, disturbed by the idea.

“Wonder why he didn’t join up with Voldemort, seems like a match made in hell.” 

“Bellchant doesn’t care about blood purity, Harry, or at least it isn’t his priority – he seems uniquely focused on magical creatures, like werewolves.” 

“Agreed. It says here he almost got expelled from Hogwarts for attacking a fellow student. He claimed she was part Veela, although her heritage was never proved. She nearly died, apparently.” 

“So he’s been nuts since day one, then; doesn’t help us get him.”

“We have no record of where he lives, and no known associates, so we’re stuck, really.”

“We could always ask the Northumberland pack for help, couldn’t we? They told us if we didn’t catch him, they would, so why not work together on it?”

Malfoy’s suggestion was a good one, and they all knew it was their best bet, so with Hermione’s permission he and Harry started to create a plan to take to the werewolves that afternoon. 

***

Having finalised a plan for Scratch and the Northumberland pack, scoffed down a quick lunch and changed out of their Ministry robes into muggle clothes, Harry and Malfoy arrived at the outskirts of the forest. 

Knowing what he did about Malfoy’s bad history with Greyback, Harry couldn’t help watching him carefully through lowered eyelashes, searching for glimpses of the vulnerability he’d seen last week. He wasn’t disappointed – Malfoy’s pale skin was more snow than marble, and his fingers, wrapped tightly around his wand, were trembling. 

Without thinking about it, Harry reached his own hand out to still Malfoy’s shaking hand. He relaxed and loosened his grip on his wand, allowing Harry to pluck it out of his hand and tuck it gently into the pocket of his jacket. Harry felt on fire where he’d touched Malfoy, and he coughed awkwardly to cover up his embarrassment.

Not saying anything, Harry caught Malfoy’s eye, waiting to see him smile weakly back before they ventured into the gloom of the forest. 

They found their own way this time, although Harry was sure a werewolf or two was lurking just out of sight, and they soon found themselves in front of Scratch. 

Scratch’s long messy hair was tied back now, but his nails were as long as they had been before. He smiled this time, and Harry felt Malfoy flinch at the sight of his yellowing, sharp teeth, although Malfoy’s face remained pleasantly blank. 

“So, the Ministry men kept their promise.” Scratch announced to no-one in particular, and Harry remembered their promise to return. Glad they’d kept it without actually thinking about it, he smiled back, relieved when Malfoy followed suit.

“What do you have for us, Ministry men?” 

“We know who’s been killing your people. He’s killed a few of ours, too. We have a plan to catch him, but we need your help.”

There was a few moments of grunting and sharp movement between Scratch and a few men surrounding him, and then Scratch nodded. 

“What do you need?” 

Harry and Malfoy outlined their plan, taking great care to explain every complicated part. It took Scratch some convincing that he could not harm Herman – Malfoy swore he’d pay for his crimes, but there must be a trial first. 

The sun had set by the time the plans were made, and they agreed to meet at the edge of the forest early the next morning to set everything in motion.

***

As Harry stood at the edge of the town square, hidden by his cloak, watching Scratch linger outside of a small bakery, he prayed that Scratch would be able to play his part – that of a lonely, homeless werewolf, hiding from the magical world, unable to fit in with the muggle one. Scratch usually stood tall, stood proud, broad shoulders and furrowed eyebrows, but even as Harry watched, he shook himself apart, head drooping, wilting in on himself. 

Reassured that Scratch’s part of the plan was watertight, he looked around at the people milling casually around them, and was amused to recognise Malfoy sat on a bench reading a newspaper. Although Malfoy wore the face of a stranger, dark hair falling in his eyes, his expression of mild impatience was hard for Harry to miss, even from across a courtyard. 

Harry moved on, and noticed Ron’s inelegant form slouched against a tree, eating an apple. He looked totally unrecognisable as the famous war hero, with his nondescript brown hair and a birthmark scrawled across his cheek. 

Both faces were the excellent transfiguration work of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall herself early that morning, as were countless others around him. In fact, as he surveyed his surroundings, he saw that Hermione and Shacklebolt had done as they’d promised: there was not a single muggle in the entire courtyard, including the people working in the shops. Instead, there were thirty odd wizards and witches, transfigured to be unrecognisable, ready and waiting for Herman Bellchant; even the six year old girl begging her mother for a chocolate bar was an Auror, wand tucked in her pink wellies. 

Phase one of his plan was complete, then. He could only hope the second phase went as smoothly. He crossed his fingers.

At that same exact moment, back in the Ministry building in London, Hermione’s assistant submitted a report, under a fake name, reporting werewolf activity in the small town of Caster-on-Sea – one of Fenrir Greyback’s remaining acolytes had been sighted and would be retrieved later that day. 

Hopefully, somewhere nearby, Herman Bellchant was somehow receiving that very same report. They’d hypothesised that if he’d got to Susan, he’d likely gotten to several other Ministry officials, and could be counted upon to be reading every report about magical creatures. 

This was the flakiest part of his plan, and it had caused Harry a sleepless night – if they were wrong, the whole operation would be for nothing – Scratch would refuse to work with them again, and Herman Bellchant would remain at large. 

And for a long, long time, he waited with bated breath, invisible and silent, hopefully watching each alleyway for a sign of Bellchant. They’d been unsure if he’d come as himself, or wearing someone else’s face, and Harry didn’t know how to distinguish a disguised Bellchant from an innocent muggle who had somehow gotten through Hermione’s many spells. 

So it was with tremendous relief that Harry saw Herman Bellchant stroll casually out of a side alley into the courtyard, dressed smartly in a suit, headed towards a chain coffee shop. Harry watched Bellchant take note of Scratch, sat slumped against a tree, rattling a cup of change – to an untrained eye, he looked like any other homeless man, but as he called out, his lips split to reveal crooked, sharp teeth, and his uncut nails clicked against the side of the cup. 

As Bellchant bought his coffee from a muggle-born Auror in disguise, Malfoy faked a phone call to his girlfriend and Ron aimed his apple core at a bin, threw, and missed. The six year old girl kicked it merrily as she passed by with her mother on the way to drop some change in Scratch’s cup. As planned, he grinned at her, and she shied away at the sight of his teeth. 

Bellchant left the coffee shop with a small bag of pastries and two cups of coffee and made a beeline towards Scratch. Harry held his breath – would Scratch be able to keep his cool and continue playing his role? The plan relied on it. 

As Bellchant offered Scratch a pastry, making friendly small talk, Harry knew that Hermione, watching from the clock tower, was quickly casting an anti-Apparate spell. They couldn’t make their move until she’d finished and given them a signal, and so Scratch patiently accepted the pastry, grunting as he scarfed it down. 

Scratch finished the pastry and there was still no sign from Hermione, and he had no choice but to accept Bellchant’s offer of a hot shower and a comfortable sofa bed. 

As they started to walk away, a low-swooping pigeon shat on Bellchant’s fancy suit, and as he flinched away in disgust, Scratch leapt forward, wrapping his hands tightly around his neck, growling. Bellchant screamed and tried to Apparate away, only to fail and scream again. He brandished his wand, already starting to shout out the Sectumsempra, seemingly so panicked that he’d forgotten his surroundings. 

Harry made to move forward, heart in his throat, but Malfoy and Ron had already gotten there – Malfoy disarmed Bellchant as Ron tackled him to the ground. Disguised Aurors swarmed in to pull Scratch away as Hermione appeared in the courtyard, breathing heavily, wand held out towards Bellchant. 

Harry quickly joined her, removing his cloak as he commended her. 

“Nice touch with the pigeon.” 

“Thanks. Thought he rather deserved it.” 

They watched as Scratch was reprimanded sharply by Malfoy and Bellchant was dragged away by the Aurors, the six year old cheering in her little voice.

Malfoy sought out Harry in the chaos that followed, his own small smile shining out at Harry. 

“Well done, Potter.”

“You too, Malfoy.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the remaining Aurors returning to their natural selves while Hermione hugged Ron tightly, loudly scolding him for his stupidity and kissing him for his bravery. 

“I’m going for a drink to celebrate the end of this case. Don’t suppose you’d be interested?” Malfoy asked, resolutely not looking at Harry. 

“If you let me catch up on some sleep first, sure. We can write Savage’s report while we’re at it.” 

“We’ll have to redo it anyway, so I can’t see the harm in that.” 

Smiling, Harry bid him goodbye and walked out of the courtyard, feeling a terrible warmth burning in his chest. Pride at solving the case, he supposed, or relief that his plan had gone well. After all, what else could it be?


	12. I weary for desires never guessed

Harry slept till long past midday, and although he knew he had dreamed of something pleasant, he couldn’t remember for the life of him what it had been. He lay, still, in bed for a long moment, gladly taking the opportunity to slowly wake up, instead of rushing off to find yet another dead body. All woken up, he rolled himself out of bed to start the day. 

He made himself breakfast (eggs and bacon) for the first time in what felt like ages, musing on what to do with his afternoon. Savage had, unwillingly, given him and Malfoy the rest of the week off, meaning he had a four day weekend instead of two. Savage rarely gave permission days off, even for Harry Potter, the Chosen One – only Shacklebolt’s insistence had persuaded her. 

He knew he was meeting Malfoy later that day, to write the first draft of their report for Savage, and, he supposed, to have a drink. It felt strange, the thought that he and Malfoy would drink alone, as they rarely spent time together, alone, outside of work. In fact, now he was thinking about it, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever spent time with just Malfoy when work wasn't involved. 

Shaking his head, he decided to pop in and visit Ron and Hermione – all their conversations lately had been about the case, and he’d missed their banter. None of them had been to last night’s Wine and Whiskey Wednesday, instead choosing to rest and relax after the successful end of their case. 

“Everyone decent?” He called as he stepped through the green fire, keen not to repeat a mistake he’d made early on after Ron and Hermione had moved in together – he’d burst into the flat only to find them in varying stages of nakedness on their sofa. They had all screamed, and he hadn’t been able to look Hermione in the eye for several days afterwards.

“Bloody hell, Harry, we were about to send a search party for you!” Ron appeared through the door to the kitchen, but his easy smile showed he wasn’t as serious as his words suggested.

“Yeah, sorry, I was asleep.” Harry sat down on their sofa (thankfully not the same one from all those years ago), reassured that he wasn’t interrupting anything. 

“Hermione’s just in the shower, but she’ll be glad to see you when she gets out.” Ron joined Harry on the sofa, holding out a large bag of crisps. “I was just about to have a snack, want some?”

Harry looked suspiciously at the bacon and cheese flavoured crisps, and shook his head. Ron was continuously finding new, disgusting junk foods that no-one else was willing to risk trying.

“Ah, go on, mate. Hermione’s been nagging me to eat more healthy crap, but if you’re eating some, she won’t mind.” 

Amused that Hermione thought she’d ever get Ron to stop eating constantly, Harry took a handful of crisps and started to munch on them. He felt something stir at the thought of having somebody to nag him about his eating habits, but he forgot about it when Hermione appeared in the living room, towelling her hair. She looked surprised, then pleased, to see him sat on their sofa. 

“He was asleep, ‘Mione.” Ron mumbled through a mouthful of crisps, and Harry nodded. 

“Been about a week since I got a good night’s sleep, so I reckon I was more tired than I thought.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re alright, anyway.” Hermione perched herself on Ron’s lap, facing Harry. Had anyone else displayed the same level of affection publicly, he might have been uncomfortable, but she was just as likely to have sat on his lap if Ron’s had been unavailable – it was just the way the three of them were, had been since the end of the war.

“I double checked Bellchant was safely in custody this morning, and everything is sorted. He’s headed to Azkaban tomorrow morning. Your plan was really rather good, Harry.” She continued, reaching out to pat Harry’s cheek. 

There was a couple of seconds of silence where Harry’s friends watched him, knowing he had something to say.

“Going for a drink with Malfoy later.” He said. “Gonna write Savage’s report.” 

“Ha, great idea! Won’t matter if you’re drunk or not, she’ll reject it anyway!” Ron, who had more than a slight dislike for his old boss, chuckled away even as Hermione frowned at the thought of work being done badly. But she’d heard years of complaints from Harry and Ron to know that Ron was right – Savage had once famously turned down something Hermione had written for Ron, and Hermione had been furious. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Not sure yet, somewhere muggle. Malfoy said to meet him at his and we’d apparate together.” 

For once, he noticed Ron and Hermione sharing a half-amused, half-exasperated glance. 

“What?” 

“Well, Harry, don’t you think that sounds a bit like a date?” 

Harry stared at Hermione for a second, gobsmacked, before he caught himself.

“Don’t be absurd. It’s for work.” 

“Nah, mate, it sounds like a date.” 

“It’s work! We’re writing the report, aren’t we?” 

“And whose idea was that?” Hermione’s glance was sharp and intuitive, and Harry felt it pierce right through him. 

“Well, mine, but…” 

“Do you want it to be a date?” Her gaze, somehow, got sharper, and Harry wriggled uncomfortably under the microscope of her stare.

Again, Harry was at a loss for words. It didn’t matter whether he wanted it to be a date (which was a conversation he didn’t really fancy having, with himself or anybody else) because it wasn’t a date. 

“It’s not a date.”

“Alright, mate, it’s not a date.” 

Having settled that, Hermione changed the topic. 

“Pansy sent me a letter with the theme for tomorrow.” She snagged the letter off the coffee table just as Ron, predictably, cried out. 

“That’s tomorrow? Bugger! I’ll have to cancel drinks with my team, then.”

It was Harry’s turn to share an amused glance with Hermione, which Ron missed as he shoved another handful of crisps into his mouth. 

“What’s the theme, then?” He spoke through the mouthful of crisps, and although Hermione rolled her eyes, she read out the letter. The theme wouldn’t be officially announced until everybody arrived tomorrow, but Pansy always caved and told Hermione beforehand, knowing she would tell Harry and Ron. 

Harry was delighted – he couldn’t wait to rub it in Malfoy’s face that he, too, knew the secret theme before the event started. 

“Celebrations, apparently. Pansy says here to think of fireworks, balloons and streamers. Dress code is the same as always, though.” 

“What on earth does celebrations mean?”

“New Year’s Eve?” Ron suggested, although the leaves had only just started to change. “Birthdays?” 

“Well, either way our clothes will fit in well.” Hermione replied, already getting up to go and get it, keen to show Harry, or perhaps just keen not to exclude him on account of their relationship.

Moments later she returned clutching a beautiful, long dark blue dress. 

“Ron’s suit is the same colour.” Hermione said proudly, gently hanging the dress over a chair and returning the sofa, this time wriggling in between the two boys. 

“Aw, cute, matching.” Harry said sarcastically, and Hermione smacked his arm, but all three were laughing. 

“I’m wearing red, this year. Gryffindor pride, and all that.” 

“Excellent show of house spirit.” Ron chortled, and Harry rolled his eyes, gesturing at Ron’s own ginger hair as though to say, “Look who’s talking!” 

***

Harry stayed with Ron and Hermione for perhaps another hour before he returned home to shower and change clothes for his drinks with Malfoy. Ron had called after him that people only changed clothes if it was a date, but Harry had ignored him – no point listening to someone who was wrong, he figured. Besides, Malfoy always looked unreasonably smart, so it was only polite to look somewhat respectable. 

He admittedly spent a long time looking through all his muggle clothes, trying on multiple outfits, wishing Ginny and Pansy had thought to revamp his muggle clothes as well as his wizarding wardrobe. Trying to predict what Malfoy would wear, Harry tried on a plain t-shirt and jeans, before wearing an uncharacteristic button-up shirt for approximately five seconds, finally settling on a clean, light blue sweater and his most fitted jeans. 

He knew it would look shabby compared to Malfoy’s pressed shirt and slacks, but Malfoy had been his partner for years now, he knew what to expect when it came to Harry. Besides, it was just a work meeting, so there was no reason to dress up, really. 

Shucking on a jacket Hermione had gifted him last year, he glanced in a mirror on his way to the door, helplessly patting the black shock of hair that sat atop his head. 

***

It was only a fifteen minute walk to Malfoy’s flat, and Harry arrived right on time, despite the light drizzle of rain and rapidly fading sunlight. He’d never been inside before, although he’d occasionally met Malfoy outside on the way to a case nearby. He was filled with a sudden strong desire to see if Malfoy was as neat and tidy at home as he was at the office, everything exactly in its place, so unlike Harry’s own desk or flat.

He knocked hesitantly, clutching the notebook and case notes he’d forgotten and had to double back and collect. The door swung open almost immediately, as if Malfoy had been standing behind it, just waiting. Perhaps he was feeling nervous too, Harry mused, feeling a strange shock jolt through him at the sight of Malfoy. 

“You’re…wearing jeans.” Harry said dumbly, unable to take his eyes of Malfoy’s black, fitted jeans and dark blue V-neck sweater. 

“Yes, and?” 

“I didn’t know you owned jeans.” 

“Of course I own jeans, Potter. What did you think I wear outside of work?” Starting to feel embarrassed at Harry’s continued surprise, he added “They are designer, and I doubt the same could be said of yours.” 

Malfoy’s dig shook Harry out of his surprise, returning them to what felt like familiar ground.

“They look good.” He said, already turning away as Malfoy locked the door to his flat.

Malfoy coughed but didn’t reply, instead holding out his arm for Harry to clutch as they spun away, landing in a dark alley. Malfoy led Harry out of the alley towards an old-looking pub named The King’s Head. 

“You’ve got muggle money, right?” Harry asked, suddenly afraid Malfoy was going to produce a sickle at the bar. 

“Of course I have, Potter, what do you take me for?” For a moment Malfoy looked as though he was going to say something else, but instead he pulled open the door to The King’s Head and ushered Harry into the warmth. 

Harry blinked for a moment in the light of the pub, taking the opportunity to look around the room as he and Malfoy took off their coats. Several people were fingering cigarettes idly, and the smoke made the room slightly hazy. There was a strong but not-unpleasant smell of beer in the air, and the wooden tables and bright fireplace created a warm, comfy feel to the room. Harry wondered what had attracted Malfoy to this pub – he normally gravitated to posher bars where hipsters wore suits and drank fancy gins.

Malfoy seemed to know what he was thinking. 

“I found this place by accident a few months ago. I’ve never been anywhere like it – it’s so…warm and friendly.” 

As though to prove his point, the bartender, a dark haired, tall, tattooed man, called out Malfoy’s name. Malfoy grinned back, waving, as he led Harry to a small table in the corner. Harry sat down but Malfoy remained standing. 

“I’ll get the first round, what do you want?” 

Harry thought for a second. 

“Beer. Dealer’s choice.” 

He didn’t feel brave enough to pick a beer, unsure if he even could name one, and so he left that to Malfoy.

For someone who had grown up in the muggle world, Harry knew very little about the muggle world – his childhood with the Dursleys had left him somewhat lacking, and he was still catching up. He’d been learning about the magical world during his time at Hogwarts, and now he was learning about the muggle world. 

Malfoy quickly returned with two pints of beer and looked in mock horror at the notes Harry was laying out. 

“Merlin, Potter, give it a minute, we’ve only just got here!” He threw himself into the seat opposite Harry, adding “wish you were this keen to work at the office.” 

Harry pulled a face at him and took a long swig of his beer, still peering down at the notes. 

“Jesus, Potter. We’ll get to it. Don’t you want to think about something else for a while first?” 

Harry reluctantly nodded. He didn’t want to think about the case, but he didn’t know how else to talk to Malfoy. He thought for a moment, watching as Malfoy quickly and efficiently packed all the notes into a small pile at the end of the table. He watched Malfoy cast a quiet notice-me-not charm on the papers – if a muggle got their hands on the notes, it would be a huge clean up job for the Obliviator Squad. 

“How many times have you been here, then?”

“Once a week, maybe less. It was an accident at first: it was midnight, and it started raining, so I ran into the first open bar. Turned out to be a nice place, so I came back.”

“What were you doing walking around at midnight?” Harry laughed, surprised – he’d always pegged Malfoy as someone who was in bed by eleven. 

“Couldn’t sleep, I suppose. Wanted some fresh air.” 

Harry nodded, understanding – he had passed so many nights sat alone in his living room just watching the night sky turn orange and pink.

“What does Pansy think of this place?”

“She hasn’t been here.” Malfoy paused to sip his drink. “I haven’t been here with anybody else – I didn’t think they’d feel the same way about it as I do.”

“And you think I do?” 

“Yes, I think you do. I haven’t seen you this relaxed in weeks.” 

Harry was startled to realise it was true – the warm, cheerful feel of the pub had let down his guard – his muscles weren’t tense and he was even leaning back in his seat. It was rare for him to be this relaxed outside of his own flat or at Ron and Hermione’s. 

“You’re comfortable just existing in here.” Malfoy elaborated. “Pansy would want to know everything about the place, would be busy making friends and connections, learning about the muggle world.”

“Oh, that reminds me – I’m looking forward to celebrating tomorrow.” He put extra emphasis on the word celebrating, hoping Malfoy would catch his hint.

Malfoy’s face froze. 

“How do you know about that?” 

“Pansy mentioned the theme to Hermione in a letter.” Harry gloated, grinning and sipping his beer. 

Malfoy relaxed, mock frowning across at him. 

“Boo Pansy! She always promises to keep it a secret but she never can.” 

Both Harry and Malfoy laughed, thinking of all the secrets Pansy had been delighted to spread in the past. Nothing truly important, of course – she was a trusted and valued member of the Ministry, but she did always love to gossip. 

“Remember that time she told everyone about Auror Rabnott’s filthy one night stand with the French Ministry’s ambassador?”

“Rabnott was so embarrassed he took a week off work to hide from everyone!” 

They chatted about Pansy, and by association Blaise, for some time, before moving on to Hermione and Ron and their pregnancy, and then Ginny and Luna and their wedding planning. 

“Feels like everybody’s all coupled up except me.” Harry admitted, already half-finished with his third beer. Not normally enough to loosen his tongue, but he felt at ease in this bar, and with Malfoy.

“And me.” Malfoy added. “Why don’t you date, then?” 

“Not really interested, I guess. Haven’t met anybody worth it.”

Malfoy frowned for a moment, staring over Harry’s shoulder, sipping his beer. 

“Connor Johnson from the Falmouth Falcons asked me out, but I said no, obviously. He’s not really my type.”

It felt strange to be sitting with Malfoy chatting about boys, but it was a natural part of any friendship, he supposed. 

“What’s wrong with him? He’s fit.” 

Harry vaguely wondered if it would be rude to ask what Malfoy’s sexual orientation was (he’d never mentioned it and Harry had never thought much about it before) but decided that it would be too awkward and intrusive. 

“Yeah, but he’s boring. He makes too much noise and doesn’t say anything important.” 

It was a scathing review of a really rather nice bloke, but Harry felt particularly ruthless in that moment – Connor had moved from America several years before, and hadn’t been involved with the war that had so affected Harry. Harry knew he could never be involved with somebody that didn’t truly understand what he’d been through.

Malfoy snorted with laughter, clearly surprised and pleased at Harry’s bitchiness. 

“What about you?”

Harry was pleased – this was a subtle way to find out what Malfoy was into, as well as who he was into. 

“You know Hannah Abbott’s cousin, James? I went on a few dates with him a couple of years ago, but we never clicked.” 

Aha! Harry thought. He’s into guys! He was triumphant for a short second, before thinking, why do I really care who he dates? It’s not like he brings them into the office, so it doesn’t affect me. 

“Oh yeah, I’ve met him. He’s a bit…well…” Harry didn’t know how to put it politely. Malfoy didn’t bother troubling himself with that. 

“He’s an arrogant twat, but he’s good enough in bed. Couldn’t stand talking to him, though, so obviously it didn’t work out.” 

Harry laughed, loudly, caught off guard by Malfoy’s openness and lack of embarrassment when talking about sex – it was still something Harry couldn’t talk about much. Vernon’s disparaging and offensive comments about ‘fancy men’ and ‘faggots’ had obviously had a lasting impact. 

The conversation moved on, and Harry was on his fifth beer when he realised it was almost midnight. 

“Jesus Christ, we’ve been here almost six hours!” Harry folded his hand over the part of the table he’d cast the Tempus charm on, feeling the tingle of magic fade away under his skin. “I should probably get back to the flat.”

“Busy day tomorrow?” Malfoy asked, doing a passable replication of Hermione’s sharp stare. 

“Well, I need to write my part of Savage’s report, for a start!” Harry gestured to the papers that had lain untouched all night. “And I’ll need to sleep off this hangover, too.” 

Malfoy nodded. 

“I’ll be helping Pansy and Blaise set up the house, of course.” 

The conversation, which had been flowing as freely as the beer all evening, suddenly felt stilted and awkward. Harry felt vaguely like he was expecting something, but he couldn’t think what it could possibly be, so he stood, chugging the last of his beer. 

He and Malfoy hugged, awkwardly, and Harry waved at the bartender as he left the pub. There was a smile on his face as he headed into the darkness – the night had been tremendously enjoyable, and he was comfortably buzzed. He was glad he’d accepted Malfoy’s offer of a drink.


	13. Lovers alone wear sunlight

Harry slept late again the next day, waking up just after midday. His head was throbbing as he slowly opened his eyes, and his mouth was disgustingly dry. He blindly groped for his glasses and the small vial he always kept on his bedside table. He swallowed a couple of swigs of Hermione’s hangover remedy, feeling a tingle as the fog in his head cleared away. 

He cast a Tempus charm in the mirror, obscuring his face as he brushed his teeth with vigour. Only five hours until he was due at Ron and Hermione’s – it was tradition that the three of them had a drink before heading to Pansy and Blaise’s party. But until then, he was at a loose end with nothing to do. 

Harry did try writing Savage’s report, spending at least an hour sat at his desk clutching a dripping quill, but he couldn’t write more than a few words without getting distracted. Sat neatly in the trash was a short letter from Connor Johnson, saying he’d be at the party and was looking forward to seeing Harry. He kept taking it out and reading it, and then throwing it away again in a flash of annoyance. 

Connor was clearly still interested, despite being rejected by Harry several times now, and Harry couldn’t work out how he felt about that. Perhaps tonight something would come alive and he’d finally be interested back. Harry was lonely – that much was obvious to him – and even a bit jealous that all of his friends were happily in love, but was he desperate enough to find love that he’d date someone he found so boring and vanilla?

He was surprised to find himself so concerned with the topic – although in the past few weeks he’d been increasingly focused on it, he hadn’t really thought about love and relationships since he and Ginny had split up. It had been strange to find himself no longer with the woman he’d once thought he’d marry, but at the time he’d been so full of hope and excitement for the future that it hadn’t mattered much. 

He remembered something Ron had said in his wedding vows to Hermione: “Marrying you is the great happiness of my life – this is the joy I’ve been waiting for forever.” It had been a remarkably poetic phrase from someone who had, just an hour before, eaten six chicken legs and then thrown them back up from nerves, but it had brought a tear to Harry’s eye. 

Sat alone in his flat, Harry wondered: Where was his own great happiness? Where were his rewards for his efforts and sacrifices during the war? 

A thought occurred to him, one that before now had only surfaced in the deepest dark of night, when he woke sweating and sobbing. What if he didn’t deserve a great happiness? What if there never was a moment where Harry realised everything had been for a reason, and all his trauma had led him to some wonderful thing? What if everything he’d done, all the terrible and monstrous things he’d had no choice but to do, had condemned him? 

After all, wasn’t he a cold-blooded murderer? Hadn’t he systematically hunted down and murdered pieces of Tom Riddle’s soul? The man had been a monster, and he’d been barely human by the time Harry had faced him down in the wreckage of their first true home, but that didn’t change what Harry had done. The fact that he’d only destroyed the diary himself didn’t matter – he’d encouraged Ron to stab the Locket and Hermione the Cup, he’d told Neville to kill Nagini – he was the moving force behind those acts.

Harry sat silently for several long hours, a half-finished report abandoned in front of him, seemingly unaware of the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

***

Harry had cheered up by the time he stepped into Ron and Hermione’s living room, or at least he’d pushed his worries deep down and forgotten them for now. He happily took the glass of wine Hermione held out to him with a large smile, and they took turns to make a toast, as they always did. 

“To the best of friendships.” Hermione spoke softly, smiling at both Ron and Harry, who both grinned back. 

“To a night we won’t remember!” Ron cheered. Hermione blushed and rolled her eyes, embarrassed – last year she’d gotten so drunk she’d lost large chunks of the night, a fact that neither Ron nor Harry were willing to let her forget. 

“To making the world a better place.” Harry said, thinking of the case they’d closed and the awful man they’d put behind bars. 

“I’ll drink to that!” Ron downed his drink and mock-bowed, flailing his arms. If Harry didn’t know better he’d think Ron was already drunk, but Ron was just like that – larger than life, always ready to feel emotions to the extreme. 

Hermione sipped her sparkling water and rested her head against Harry’s shoulder for a moment, smiling up at him. 

“You look very handsome, Harry.”

He twirled in a circle, showing off the dark red suit he’d bought on a whim, and laughed loudly at Ron’s wolf whistle.

“Well, we’d better get going, we don’t want to be late.” Hermione held out her hands to her boys and spun them away.

***

They arrived outside Pansy and Blaise’s country manor, lit up by the bright coloured lanterns strung up along the driveway. There was a hum of noise, of laughter, coming from ahead of them as the three followed other well-dressed people towards the house.

It hadn’t been long ago that Pansy and Blaise gotten sick of living alone in their family homes, haunted by the memories of the war, and they’d both sold their vast family estates, choosing instead to buy a large muggle manor together. It had been a brave move, but one that Harry respected them for – they’d shed the war like old skins, and they’d moved forward into a brighter future. 

The interior was even more striking than the imposing exterior, especially decorated as it was tonight. An entrance hall led into a multitude of rooms, primarily the ballroom which was the venue for tonight’s party.

In each corner of the ballroom was a huddle of gold and silver balloons, streaming a shower of tiny stars that didn’t seem to puddle on the floor – an impressive piece of spell work. Streamers hung from the high arched ceiling, coloured silver and pale pink, shimmering gently. Huge bouquets of white and pink flowers were dotted around the room, and Harry could smell their sweet fragrance. 

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful!” Hermione gasped, and even Ron, who’d once told Harry he didn’t understand why people bothered with how things looked, looked impressed.

Harry looked around, recognising several co-workers and colleagues from the Ministry, wondering vaguely where Malfoy was. He said he’d be there early, so presumably he was lurking somewhere. 

A cry of joy caught his attention and Pansy appeared in front of them, wearing a black lace dress that flowed around her like water. Her characteristic crimson lips curved into an elated grin as she threw her arms around each newcomer in turn. Blaise stood behind her, holding two glasses of champagne, which he held out to Ron and Harry. 

“I heard you won’t be drinking for a while, Hermione.” He told her with a small smile, embracing her lightly before giving Ron a hearty pat on the back.

“So we won’t be having a repeat of last year!” Ron crowed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders kissing the top of her head, narrowly avoiding her elegant up-do. 

Harry felt a tap on his shoulder and spun around, coming face to face with Connor Johnson. He felt his heart twist and he forced a smile. 

“Hi, Harry.” 

“Hi, Connor.”

“Enjoying the party?” 

“Only just got here, actually, but yeah.” 

“Bit of an odd theme, isn’t it? Bit vague.” 

“Yeah, I can’t think of anyone’s birthday we’re celebrating, and New Year’s isn’t for ages, so I dunno what the idea was.” 

There was a couple of seconds where Harry took a hasty gulp of champagne while he tried to think of something else to say. 

“How’s Quidditch going, then?” 

“Good!” Connor looked relieved to be on a familiar topic. “We won our last match. Not looking forward to coming up against Ginny, though.” 

Harry smiled. She had quite a reputation for not only being an excellent flyer but also incredibly fiery on and off the pitch.

“I’m not a betting guy, but if I was, I’d put money on her.”

Connor didn’t look offended. 

“So would I! She’s fearsome on the pitch.” 

Harry actually laughed at that, and just as he did, Malfoy appeared over Connor’s shoulder, smiling. He saw who Harry was talking to and the relaxed, casual smile fell off his face. He frowned and turned away, and as he did, Harry noticed he was holding two champagne glasses. He felt guilty for some reason, and he couldn’t shake the feeling until he took another sip of his drink.

Harry talked to Connor for a little longer, no longer desperate to get away but certainly uncomfortable, until he saw Ginny and Luna arriving. Seeing him, they called out his name. Making his excuses to Connor, he made his way towards them. 

“Hello, Harry. You looked a bit awkward over there.” Luna stated, airily kissing both his cheeks.

“Yeah, thought we’d save you the horrors of conversation with Connor!” Ginny was not a fan of Connor – she was the only one of Harry’s friends who’d never encouraged Harry to date him. Harry often wondered how much of it was genuine dislike and how much was just her uncanny ability to see exactly how Harry felt, but either way he was grateful for it.

“Yeah, thanks for that, you two. You look great, by the way.” 

Luna twirled in a circle, pale blue dress floating around her, and Ginny gave a mock-bow in her short, tight black dress. They’d styled their hair in the same way – a slightly messy bun on the top of their heads, dotted with what looked like tiny stars. 

The three of them were quickly joined by Ron and Hermione, and all five tried to work out the reason for the vague theme.

“Oh, look, Neville’s arrived!” Luna swanned off to greet Neville and Calliope, and Ginny watched after her with a fond smile. 

“How’s the wedding plan going, Gin?” Harry asked. 

“If you guys ever want any advice or anything…” Ron offered. “Hermione’s got a few folders with all our wedding information in it.”

Hermione looked pleased that Ron had remembered the folders (although he had rather undersold them, Harry thought – there were at least ten) and nodded along with him. 

“Oh, thanks; it’s coming along slowly. You know what Luna’s like – so full of ideas, not so great at the planning.” 

“I can’t imagine what that’s like!” Hermione winked at Ron, who pretended to look put out until she kissed his cheek quickly. 

Hermione talked a little about her pregnancy, which Harry had admittedly not thought much about recently, and he was glad to hear she and the baby were doing well so far. Ron looked proud enough to burst. 

“Do you reckon they’ll be ginger?” Ron mused aloud. 

“My grandfather was ginger, and so is one of my cousins, so yes, I should think so.” 

“There’s nothing cuter than a little ginger baby!” Ron crowed.

“Careful though, Ron, or you’ll end up with a whole Quidditch team!” Ginny snorted at the look of horror on both Ron and Hermione’s face. 

Laughing, Harry made his way towards Hannah Abbott to give her a quick hug and see how she was doing.

For the next hour or so Harry wandered round the room, greeting co-workers with smiles and a wave, and chatting to old school friends, all the while wondering where Malfoy had got to. Dean and Seamus told him all about their next trip to Africa, and Neville whispered to him that he was thinking Calliope could be a long-term thing, rather than the brief fling he’d expected. 

Harry was just debating whether to get a third glass of champagne when a large gong sounded. Attention turned to Blaise, clad in a smart colourful suit. 

“If everyone could stand in two groups and face me…” He said, and everybody obeyed, each privately thinking, where is this going? Pansy and Blaise’s parties were infamous for their crazy invented games. 

“You all know the theme is celebrations, but what are we celebrating? Well, I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but…today is a good day.” 

Harry, near the front of his group, beside Hermione and Ron, finally saw Malfoy, standing beside Blaise, dressed sharply in a dark green suit, blond hair slicked back sleekly. 

Before he had time to smile at Malfoy, gentle string music started to play and there was a collective gasp from the people crowded behind him. Everyone turned round to see Pansy, black dress charmed white, walking down the aisle created by the two groups. 

“Oh, gosh!” Hermione whispered. 

Reaching the front, Pansy took Blaise’s hand and addressed their flabbergasted friends. 

“Surprise!” She laughed. “You’re invited to our wedding!”

Everybody clapped and cheered, Harry included. 

“We couldn’t think of a better time and place to get married than here, with all our loved ones. We couldn’t help a bit of Slytherin sneakiness, though – we wanted to see all your surprised faces!” 

There was a light ripple of laughter throughout the crowd as Pansy turned serious and faced Blaise again. 

“Blaise, dearest, this really is a day for celebrating. You are the bravest, most wonderful man I’ve ever met. You have always been by my side and I couldn’t be happier to be standing here with you, with the rest of our lives ahead of us. I can’t wait to be your wife.” 

For the first time ever, Harry saw Blaise wipe away a solitary tear as he smiled back at Pansy. 

“Pansy…You and everyone know I’m not normally one for showing my heart on my sleeve, but I think we can both agree this is a special occasion.” He paused, and Harry was amazed to see that he, usually so cool and calm, was collecting his thoughts. “We have survived more than I ever thought we could, but you didn’t just survive – you thrived. You shine like no-one else, Pans, and I’m going to show you every day how much I love you.” 

Pansy and Blaise kissed, to the sound of cheers and wolf whistles. There was a pale haze of light shimmering around them (a charm, no doubt) as though they were doused in sunlight, shining inside and out. 

Ron and Hermione embraced, and Harry realised again that, surrounded as he was by all his friends, he was the only single one amongst them. But although that thought tugged at his heart, he couldn’t help but feel the same joy that Pansy and Blaise, spinning in circles in each other’s arms, were clearly feeling. 

Harry looked up, towards the end of the room, where Malfoy stood, and felt something unfamiliar and scary tighten his heart to see Malfoy looking back at him.


	14. Love is a clash of lightnings

The crowd fell back into a low rumble of noise as soon as Pansy and Blaise, now husband and wife, started to make the rounds, greeting all their friends individually. Some looked terribly upset not to have gotten them a wedding gift; Hermione was included in this group, of course, although Ron did his best to persuade her they wouldn’t mind. 

Harry immediately looked for Malfoy, wondering why they hadn’t had time to talk yet, but Malfoy was gone, no longer standing beside the gong Blaise had rung just minutes earlier. Where the hell has he gone? Harry thought, feeling a burst of impatience bloom inside him. Perhaps he only wants to be friends in private, he thought grumpily, and decided to put Malfoy out of his mind for the rest of the evening. 

Harry realised he was stood alone, lost in thought as he had been, and turned to find a friend or, failing that, a drink. Instead, he found himself facing a tall, dark blond man who was reaching out to tap Harry on the shoulder. 

“Oh, sorry, I was not sure if I should disturb you. You looked very deep in thought.” 

The man had a French accent and a deep, low voice that matched his incredible height. Harry considered himself fairly tall (although truthfully he was just above average) and he found himself looking up at this man. 

“Uh, no, that’s fine. Um, who are you?” 

“I am Francoise Benoit, a colleague of Pansy and Blaise’s from the French Ministry. You are Harry Potter, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Harry paused. He didn’t want to seem rude, but he really didn’t want to make any new friends right now. Even tall, attractive men didn’t hold much of an interest for some reason.

“Pansy suggested I come over and introduce myself to you, I hope you do not mind?” 

Ahh. That made sense. Pansy was matchmaking, again. Every year she sent over a friend or colleague to chat him up, and every year she was unsuccessful. 

“Nah, I don’t mind. Enjoying the party?” 

“Yes, I am. I am very glad to be a guest to their wedding – it is an honour.” 

Harry spotted Ron a few feet away, engaged in a lively conversation with Dean and Neville. He wished he could leave this awkward conversation and join them. He wondered if he could call Ron over or if it would be too rude. 

“So who else do you know here, then?” 

“I’ve met Draco several times in the past, and I was introduced to Hermione Granger just a few minutes ago.” 

Francoise seemed proud to have met Hermione, and Harry smiled – she was a famous war hero and a prominent Ministry figure dead set on making the world a better place – there really wasn’t a better person to be found, except perhaps her husband, who Harry thought fit the bill just as well. 

“Hermione is great, isn’t she?” Harry noticed that Ron had detached himself from the group and was watching Harry talk to Francoise. 

“I’m sorry, Francoise, but I’ve just seen one of my friends. Can we chat later?” Harry didn’t wait for a reply and darted over to Ron, snagging a champagne glass from a waiter on the way over. 

“I don’t know why Pansy is so keen to set me up!” Harry groaned, downing his drink in one large gulp.

“Harry, mate, are you nuts? That guy was all over you!” Ron gestured to the tall handsome man walking away, incredulous that Harry hadn’t even spared five minutes to talk to him. “Why didn’t you go for it?”

“I don’t know, he seemed too…nice.” 

“Nice?! You don’t want someone nice?” 

Harry shook his head, not sure how to explain that he wanted someone witty and sarcastic and a little bit mean. Ron looked like he knew what Harry couldn’t say, and he didn’t like it. Harry turned away and caught sight of Malfoy on the other side of the room, laughing at something Pansy had said. 

There he is! Harry thought to himself, relieved to finally have spotted the elusive Malfoy again. He couldn’t help but smile as Malfoy laughed so much he spat out his mouthful of champagne. Malfoy rarely fully relaxed, and it was nice to see him looking so happy.

“Hermione’s convinced you’re just being difficult, but I actually think you don’t have a clue.” Ron said, watching Harry watching Malfoy. “I don’t think you know you’re in love with him.” 

“What? In love with who?” Distracted, Harry turned back to Ron, feeling heat in his stomach.

“Malfoy. You’re in love with Malfoy.” And suddenly everything made sense. A bolt of electricity shot through him.

The world seemed to shake for a moment, and then Harry felt a surge of adrenaline. Almost without feeling it, he clenched his fist, crushing his empty champagne glass into his palm. There was a splash of blood, and then Ron, who knew Harry best of all and presumably had predicted his reaction, repaired the glass with a wave of his wand. Without batting an eyelid Ron reached out to take Harry’s bleeding hand, but Harry yanked it back. 

He couldn’t stop staring at Malfoy, standing across the room, talking and gesturing energetically, totally unaware of the chaos going on inside Harry’s head. 

“Harry, mate, you’re bleeding!” Ron reached out again, and this time Harry pushed him away. 

“I’ll deal with it, Ron! Leave it.” Harry shook his left hand distractedly, and drops of blood smeared the floor. 

“Harry!” Ron cried out, frustrated, and heads started to turn. Harry was still gawking at Malfoy, hearing every word he’d ever thought about him ringing in his ears. 

“Let me fix your hand.” Ron said, stepping into his line of vision. 

“I’ll sort it!” Harry snapped, voice suddenly too loud, too brash, and this time Malfoy and Pansy turned round, seeing what the commotion was. Malfoy’s eyes caught his. 

Feeling dizzy, and vaguely like he might be sick, he shoved the bloodstained glass at Ron and stumbled away. He heard Ron telling someone “Well, I finally told him.” He heard Hermione’s concerned, “Oh, dear.” 

And then he was at the glass doors, pushing his way through flimsy curtains, finding himself standing on a balcony in the brisk night air. He slapped both hands on the railing, leaning out into the open, breathing deeply. His heart was racing – he vaguely wondered if he was going to faint.

There was movement behind him – the curtains being pushed aside. 

“I said I’ll fucking sort it, Ron!” He snapped.

“Sort what?” Malfoy’s voice sounded loud and clear above the noise inside, and Harry whirled around to face him, heart in his throat. 

“Jesus, Potter, what happened?” Malfoy looked horrified, and Harry looked down at his hand for the first time, seeing the deep gash in his palm, studded with shining glass splinters. His left hand, hanging loosely from his slack arm, was streaming blood down his fingers onto the marble floor. 

“I…broke a glass.” He felt dazed, like he was in a dream. Malfoy moved towards him, fast, and Harry flinched backwards, collapsed into a seat, wincing as his arm hit the railings.

“Let me fix it.” Malfoy said, softly, kneeling in front of Harry and taking his hand. 

Harry couldn’t breathe – his whole hand was on fire, and he could feel Malfoy’s chest resting up against his knees. Malfoy didn’t look up at him once as he traced the wound with his wand, carefully sealing the cut and siphoning away the blood. The moment seemed to last forever – Harry’s hand clasped in Malfoy’s, his warm breath feathering against the soft, new skin.

Finished, Malfoy released Harry’s hand, and the pain hit him like a punch to the face. 

“Shit!” He swore, snatching back his hand and cradling it against his chest, burning tears springing up in his eyes. 

“What the hell happened in there, Potter?” Immediate emergency sorted, Malfoy stepped back, sat in the other chair, several feet away. 

The distance allowed Harry to release the breath he’d been holding. Harry didn’t reply – he was too busy looking at Malfoy as he’d never looked at him before. His white blond hair, silvery in the moonlight, was slicked back sharply, framing his angular face. His eyes, grey, peered out at Harry from under pale eyebrows. His lips were contorted into a grimace of concern at Harry’s state. 

Harry had never thought about it before, but Malfoy’s face was striking – the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, the softer inward curves of his cheeks – it wouldn’t be considered handsome (beautiful, perhaps?) but there was something about it. His face was almost hard to look at it – you’d have to learn it to love it. But then, isn’t that exactly what Harry had done? Without even realising it, he’d fallen in love with Draco Malfoy. 

“Are you OK?” He asked, sounding impatient, as though he was repeating himself. 

Something about the look on his face (concern? pity? affection, even?) struck a chord in Harry, set something alight, and thoughtlessly he lunged forward, almost falling into Malfoy’s lap as he kissed him. 

The kiss lasted nothing longer than a second before Harry pulled himself back, mortified. 

“Oh Jesus…I’m sorry... I didn’t mean…Oh God…I’m so sorry.” He babbled, fingers pressed against his own lips. 

Malfoy’s face was carefully schooled to show no emotion. 

“Why did you do that?” He asked, one singular eyebrow raised coolly. 

“I don’t know…” Harry paused. “That’s a lie. I do know. I wanted to.” 

Malfoy said nothing. Harry would have been concerned at his lack of a response, but he could barely think straight enough to be careful of his aching hand, let alone decipher Malfoy. 

They stared at each other for a long moment, silent and still in the silver shine of the moon, and then finally Malfoy moved. More graceful than Harry had been by far, he leaned forward, carefully pressing his cool lips against Harry’s warm ones. 

Burning inside, Harry placed his hands on Malfoy’s face, heart aching. Malfoy’s hands found their way to Harry’s mess of hair, twisting the dark strands between his pale, thin fingers. 

The angle of the kiss was awkward, uncomfortable, and without breaking the connection of their lips Malfoy stepped backwards, bringing Harry up to stand against the balcony railing. Harry released Malfoy’s face with his uninjured hand and pulled Malfoy towards him, to stand flush against him. 

Both men gasped in sync. Harry blindly groped for Malfoy’s lower back, resting his hand in the small of his back, and Malfoy made a tiny, soft, sound that, to Harry’s embarrassment, went straight to his cock. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind Harry was hearing a commotion just inside – raised voices, perhaps – but it seemed so disconnected from the electric elation he was feeling that he ignored it, forgot it immediately. 

Malfoy stepped impossibly closer, pushing Harry further against the railings, and it was Harry’s turn to make a strange, strangled sound. 

The noise and commotion got closer. 

“Draco, are you – oh!” Pansy’s voice broke off with a high-pitched gasp, and both men pushed each other away, breathing hard, avoiding eye contact. Harry was staring, stone-still shocked, at Pansy. Malfoy had turned away, leaning over the railings, face invisible in the dark. 

“Um, I’m sorry to interrupt, boys, but…Draco, it’s time for your speech?” Pansy’s delicate hands were over her red, red lips in a show of surprise and embarrassment. She wouldn’t make eye contact with Harry, whose face was flushed and his hands were clutched over his groin. 

Malfoy turned around, followed Pansy to the flapping curtains leading into the bright lights and noise, but as he reached the doorway, he turned to face Harry. 

The right side of his face was stained with a bloody hand print, and his usually immaculate hair was falling, feathery, around his face, but Harry couldn’t decipher his facial expression. They stared at each other for a moment, Harry desperately wishing Malfoy would stay outside with him, and then Malfoy stepped inside. 

***

Harry didn’t go inside to listen to Malfoy’s speech. He didn’t want to hear him cracking jokes and sounding all clever and fancy as though what had just happened meant nothing. (Harry would later find out his speech had been a terrible mess – Malfoy had stumbled through it, clearly distracted.)

Instead Harry stood against the railing, trying to calm himself and slow his heart. That kiss had been perhaps the most electrifying moment of his whole life to date, and Malfoy had just walked away without a word. 

Perhaps for Malfoy it had been a result of too many glasses of champagne, or the strange intimacy of mending Harry’s wound, or a slip in judgment. Perhaps Malfoy kissed people at every party, and it had just happened to be Harry this time. But for Harry it hadn’t been a mistake. It had been the culmination of what felt like years of repressed emotion.

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t known how he felt about Malfoy – it was a constant drumbeat in his heart now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever forget. How long had he felt that way? How embarrassing, to be told by Ron he was in love with someone.

Harry stood out there, in the rapidly cooling darkness, as the evening ended and people started to head home. Nobody came to check on him – they probably thought he’d stormed off home. 

Until finally, Pansy joined him on the balcony. 

“Sorry I interrupted earlier, Harry, but we needed Draco to give his speech. He was Best Man and Man of Honour, you know.” 

Harry didn’t say anything, but he leant his head on her shoulder as she leant against the railing beside him. 

“Where’s Malfoy?” 

“He went home right after his speech.” Pansy said apologetically, shrugging slightly. “Everybody was saying you’d had a fight with him, you know. It was quite the spectacle – I think it even beat our surprise wedding.” 

“Sorry I almost ruined your party.” Harry said sheepishly to Pansy, who laughed. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry! Nothing’s a good event until there’s been some drama. Besides, it’ll be a relief not to hear Malfoy moon about you anymore.” 

“He talks about me?” Harry asked, surprised, absurdly pleased. 

“Oops!” Pansy put her hand over her mouth jokingly, but she clearly wasn’t going to elaborate. It would be up to Harry to ask Malfoy. 

“Do you think it would be weird if I went to his flat? I want to talk to him.” 

Pansy smiled softly, sympathetically. “I think it would be fine.” 

Harry didn’t even say goodbye to Pansy, just turned on the spot and spun away, appearing outside Malfoy’s front door. He stood there for a long while, working up the courage to knock on it or to go home. 

Finally, he reached out, tapped the door a couple of times. A few seconds passed, and then the door swung open, revealing a ruffled and sleepy-eyed Malfoy dressed in a large t shirt and muggle trackies. 

“Potter!” 

He hadn’t washed off Harry’s bloodstained handprint, and he hadn’t brushed back his hair. 

Harry stared at him, suddenly unable to remember why he’d come, and Malfoy stared back, clearly waiting for Harry to speak first. 

“What’s wrong with you?” He blurted.

“What do you mean, Potter?” Malfoy said tiredly, rubbing his hand across his eyes, leaning against the doorframe.

“Do you kiss all of your friends and then run away?” Harry snapped, annoyed that he was having to explain himself. 

“Oh. Potter.” Malfoy looked miserable, for some reason, as though it wasn’t the question he’d been expecting, or hoping for. “I’m sorry about that.” 

“I’m not. I’m not sorry.” In for a dime, in for a dollar, Harry figured. Things would be awkward at work now anyway, no harm in making it worse.

“You’re not?” Surprised. 

“No. But since you are, I’ll see you at work.” Embarrassed that he’d come to see Malfoy for no reason, Harry turned away. 

“Wait!” Malfoy reached out, whip-fast, and grabbed Harry’s wrist. “I’m not sorry. I thought you would be.” 

Fingers still wrapped around Harry’s wrist, they watched each other, aware of something bubbling up in the space between them, unaware just what it was. 

“Why did you run away?” 

“I was scared.” 

“Why?” Harry couldn’t understand – he’d been the opposite of scared – he’d been on top of the world with Malfoy’s lips on his. 

“Potter…I don’t want this to just be a fling.” Malfoy’s voice was pained, and he wouldn’t catch Harry’s eye. Understanding hit Harry like a punch to the stomach.

“Malfoy, when have I ever had flings?” It was true – Harry hardly even went on dates, and everyone knew it. Harry reached out, turned Malfoy’s face to him gently. 

“This is something more, Draco.” He said softly, and leaned in, hand placed gently over the bloody imprint from before.


	15. Where does the rainbow end?

Harry had barely leaned in when Malfoy (Draco? Harry thought, wondering how weird it would be to call him that) pulled Harry into his flat, pushing the front door shut with his foot. Malfoy pushed him up against the door and kissed him, hard. Harry let out a squeak of surprise as his back hit the door and Malfoy broke the kiss to laugh, resting his forehead against Harry’s. 

“Did you just squeak, Potter?” 

“Um, no?” 

“Yeah, you definitely did.” Still laughing, Malfoy pulled back, dropping his hands from Harry’s waist. Harry jokingly pouted, disappointed, but took the opportunity to look around at the flat, which he’d never seen before. 

“Good God, Malfoy, are you always this neat and tidy?”

Malfoy’s flat was minimalistic – mostly black, white and grey, with a large sofa in front of…was that a muggle TV? The main room was open plan, with the living room spreading seamlessly into a kitchen that looked so unlike Harry’s own cluttered, chaotic kitchen that he couldn’t help rolling his eyes. 

Malfoy hesitated, and for a moment Harry thought he’d offended him. He winced as Malfoy disappeared through one of the doorways out of the main room. 

“Aren’t you coming, Potter?”

Harry quickly followed, and couldn’t help the gasp that escaped him at the sight of Malfoy’s bedroom. 

Unlike the rest of the flat, his room was a vivid burst of colour – countless of what were presumably his own paintings hung on the walls, depicting Hogwarts and countryside scenes and even a small, darker one of Malfoy Manor burning. Even his bedsheets were a bright green (Slytherin green, Harry thought to himself).

“This is more like it!” Harry smiled and tentatively took Malfoy’s hand, glad when he didn’t shake his hand away. 

“Hang on….Is that us?” Harry leaned forward to see the framed photograph on Malfoy’s bedside table, amused and secretly delighted to see it was the photo of them that Malfoy had bought at Dean and Seamus’ gala. “So that’s why you wanted that piece so badly.” 

“Well, I was hardly going to tell you that, was I?” Malfoy looked desperately embarrassed, but Harry grinned widely back at him. Harry was pleased – just because he’d only just found out about his feelings for Malfoy it didn’t mean they weren’t strong feelings. The framed photo was reassurance that perhaps Malfoy felt as strongly. 

“Why don’t you have any of this stuff out there?” Harry hooked a thumb behind him, towards the main room. 

“I don’t know…my father hated mess, hated my art. I had to keep it in my room so it wasn’t burned or thrown away.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say – he’d always known Lucius Malfoy was a bastard, of course, but he hadn’t realised how awful he’d been even to his own family. He didn’t know if he’d be allowed to call Malfoy’s father a bad name, though, or if that would be a step too far. Instead he decided to share something personal about himself, so Malfoy didn’t regret telling him. 

“Do you know why I always have so much stuff nowadays? I wasn’t allowed to own anything with my muggle relatives. I had to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs, actually.”

Malfoy looked horrified.

“What the fuck, Potter?” 

“Yeah, my first Hogwarts letter had ‘Cupboard under the stairs’ as my address.”

“Your first Hogwarts letter?” 

“Oh, yeah, they hated magic, didn’t want me knowing anything about it, especially not a magic school. They kept destroying the letters.”

Malfoy looked distinctly upset now, and he wouldn’t meet Harry’s eye. 

“All those times I was so awful to you…I always thought…you know, the Chosen One, you’d have grown up being told how brilliant and special you were.” 

“Ha! Hardly. They hated me. Thought I was a freak.” Even now, so many years later, Harry felt himself choke up a little. 

There was an awkward silence that spoke of all the years they’d spent hating each other at school, each believing the other had it better, and was a worse person for it. Harry didn’t want any more silence – he was tired of it.

He snatched up the most colourful of Malfoy’s paintings (Hogwarts in neon) and took it into the living room, hanging it above the TV with a swish of his hand. Malfoy appeared behind him and laughed, a little bark of noise like he couldn’t stop himself. Harry smiled proudly.

“I bet my father is turning in his cell.” Malfoy stood behind Harry, gently wrapped his arms around his waist, and rested his chin on Harry’s head. Harry had never thought Malfoy was any taller than him, but clearly, he was. It was an odd thought, that they were still learning things about each other so many years after their first meeting as children. 

“I’m tired.” Harry whispered, leaning back into Malfoy. “I should go home.” 

He was vaguely, and probably pointlessly, hoping Malfoy would suggest Harry could stay over. He didn’t want to go back to his lonely flat.

“You could stay here, if you wanted to.” He sounded very casual as he said it, but Harry thought (hoped) he could hear something nervous in his voice.

Harry twisted in his arms, kissed him on the lips, revelling that he could. He still couldn’t believe he’d gone from having no idea he wanted to kiss Malfoy, to always wanting to in such a short space of time. 

“Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Don’t be stupid, Potter. I never say anything I don’t mean.” 

“I’ll make note of that for the future.” 

They returned to Malfoy’s bedroom, and Harry sat awkwardly on the edge of Malfoy’s bed. Smiling, Malfoy got Harry a t-shirt and a pair of trackies, and then vanished into the bathroom while Harry got changed in his room. 

Harry sat back down at the end of the bed when he was done getting changed – it had been years since he’d stayed the night with someone (since Ginny, and that relationship had never felt so new and raw) and he didn’t know what to do. 

He hoped Malfoy wasn’t expecting sex. Harry had never slept with a man before, although of course he’d thought about it (a lot), and the thought of doing it tonight made him nervous. Besides, he really was tired, and he thought that would probably have an effect. 

Thankfully, before his thoughts could spiral any further, Malfoy reappeared, gently knocking on the door before entering. Without any talking, both men got under the covers, Harry on the side closer to the door.

“You’re not…expecting…” 

“What? Oh. No, Potter, don’t be daft. I never put out on the first date.” 

Harry couldn’t help laughing at that, and soon both men were chuckling slightly, more relaxed. 

“Also, I’m sorry, I get nightmares, sometimes…” 

Harry was more than a little worried about this – his night terrors had been upsetting for Ginny, and were a large factor in why Harry didn’t have one night stands. The thought of waking up screaming, sobbing, in front of anybody terrified him.

“That’s OK, Potter. I do, too.” Malfoy reached out to gently stroke Harry’s cheek softly with his finger, looking like he thought Harry might not let him. It felt terribly intimate, and Harry almost blushed and turned away, but he stuck it out, feeling fire where Malfoy’s finger touched his cheek.

It didn’t take long for Malfoy to fall asleep, comfortable in his own bed, comfortable sharing it with someone else, but it took Harry longer. He watched Malfoy’s peaceful, sleeping form for quite some time before sleep claimed him. 

***

When Harry woke up, Malfoy wasn’t in bed. The space left by his body was still warm, thought, and Harry rolled lazily into it and closed his eyes again. Neither Harry nor Malfoy had been disturbed by nightmares. 

Reluctantly, Harry opened his eyes again, noticing that it was, again, past midday – he was getting into some bad habits, he thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when he realised where he was. He’d spent the night with Malfoy!

He crawled out of bed in search of Malfoy, who he found already dressed and showered, eating breakfast at the kitchen table. 

“I always guessed you were an early riser.” Harry said triumphantly as he sat down opposite him. 

“Unlike you, clearly! Now I see why you’re always late to work.” Malfoy smiled up at him as he pushed forward a plate of eggs and avocado on toast. 

“Hey now, I’m not always late.” 

“Ah, yes, there was that one time two years ago.” 

“Alright, I get your point.” Harry laughed, tucking into the meal. “When did you become such a good cook?” 

“After the war I let all the house elves go, and then I didn’t have much choice but to learn. It’s mostly spells, though.” 

“I can teach you the muggle way, if you want?” 

“I’d like to give it a try, certainly.” 

They ate in comfortable silence, until Harry suddenly dropped his fork with a gasp. 

“Oh, shit, I just realised Ron and Hermione don’t know where I am.”

“You didn’t tell them you were coming here?”

“Didn’t have the chance, I came as soon as Pansy said it might be a good idea.” 

“Will they be worried?” 

“Out of their minds, probably.” 

Harry didn’t want to get into it with Malfoy now, but there had been times in the past that he’d vanished, no communication with anyone, leaving Ron and Hermione behind to cover for him. 

“You should probably go let them know you’re alright, shouldn’t you?” 

Harry smiled gratefully at Malfoy as he stood up. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” He paused. “I’ll be back later, if that’s alright?” 

“Of course. Now, go. I don’t want Granger hexing me because she thinks I’ve kidnapped you.” He was mostly joking, but it was true that many Ministry officials had a healthy mix of fear and respect for Hermione Granger. 

“I wouldn’t worry about her; Ron’s the one you’ve got to watch for – nasty Jelly-Leg Jinx.” 

Harry stepped outside Malfoy’s flat and apparated, doubting that Malfoy would have a direct Floo link to Ron and Hermione’s flat. 

***

Contrary to Harry’s belief, neither Ron nor Hermione had been terribly worried about him (Pansy had tipped them off that he was fine, although she clearly hadn’t told them everything). 

Hermione made him a cup of tea and the three sat around the kitchen table, chatting about the night before. Ron and Hermione tactfully avoided the topic of Malfoy, and Harry realised that Pansy was right – they probably thought they’d fought. 

“Hang on, mate…those clothes aren’t yours.” Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry’s clothing – Malfoy’s trackies and t-shirt, both of which were a little long on him, and designer to boot. 

Harry shrugged and took a swig of his tea. 

“No, Ron’s right, Harry, I’ve never seen you wear them before.” 

“Where did you stay last night?” Ron said shrewdly, and Harry felt his face heat up slightly. 

“I stayed at Malfoy’s.” 

There was a couple of seconds silence as Ron and Hermione took this in. 

“Did you two have sex?” 

“Hermione!” Harry and Ron chorused in sync, scandalised. Hermione rolled her eyes as Ron leaned forward.

“Really though, did you?” 

“No, Ron, I didn’t have sex with him.” 

His friends looked disbelieving. 

“We kissed, at the party, and then he left to give his speech. So after, I went to his flat.” 

“And?” 

“And we kissed again, and then we shared a bed, and that’s it.” 

Ron nodded, satisfied, but Hermione looked as though she was realising something crucial. 

“You kissed! That’s why his speech was so terrible, he must have been distracted!” 

“It was?”

“Yeah, it was shit, mate. He forgot half of it and had to get his notes out.” Ron looked delighted at the thought of perfect Draco Malfoy having to read his speech from his notes, although he wisely kept that thought to himself – Hermione, who never used notes, wouldn’t hear any criticism of memorisation.

Harry couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Malfoy being distracted by their kiss, although he felt bad Malfoy had ruined his reputation of giving the best speeches. 

“So are you two an item now?” 

“Um, I don’t know. We didn’t talk about that, really.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you are, he’d be mad not to date you.” Hermione smiled at him as Ron enthusiastically nodded his head. 

Harry left soon after – Ron and Hermione were visiting the Burrow, and he needed to shower, change and return to Malfoy’s. 

***

Harry let himself into Malfoy’s flat several hours later – the door was unlocked, although Harry was sure there were spells in place to prevent intruders. 

“Malfoy? I’m back.” 

Malfoy was sat on the sofa, reading a newspaper. Harry saw with dismay it was the Daily Prophet – Harry’s nemesis. He’d actually campaigned for it to get shut down several years ago, but he’d had no luck. He hadn’t realised Malfoy read it, although perhaps he did it just for fun, the way Ginny and Luna did.

“Why are you reading that crap, Malfoy?” Harry sat down beside him, only to see his own face splashed across the front of the page. 

“Chosen One can’t choose one…what the hell?” Harry read aloud. 

“I didn’t realise you were so popular, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice was quiet as he shifted the paper, revealing the other photos – Harry laughing with Connor, Harry smiling up at Francoise, both photos from last night. 

“Haven’t they got anything better to write about?” Harry, relieved the article wasn’t anything worse, as it had been in the past, smiled at Malfoy. He didn’t smile back. 

Malfoy flicked to the next page – a photo of Harry from this afternoon, walking home from Ron and Hermione’s (he figured he needed the exercise) – the caption described Harry coming back from ‘yet another’ one night stand. It was true that he looked messy, with his wild hair and ill-fitting clothes, but Harry didn’t think it warranted a whole article. 

“Ha. They got that wrong, then. I was at yours, not with some random hook-up.” Harry was triumphant, glad to have proved the Prophet wrong, even though he was long past the stage where he’d write in to complain. 

“Yet another one night stand?” Malfoy said sourly, ignoring Harry’s comment. “I didn’t realise you got around so much.” 

Harry, shocked at Malfoy’s tone and unpleasant words, stared at him for a second. 

“Are you serious?” 

“Yes.” Malfoy snapped back, not looking away from the pages. “You told me you didn’t do the whole sleeping around thing.” 

“And I don’t! Why are you reading this, anyway? They’ve never printed anything factually correct, ever.” 

Malfoy had sounded perhaps a little upset, but Harry was angry now – it was one thing to read the newspaper that had it out for Harry, but to read it and believe it? Unacceptable, and incredibly hurtful.

“I always read the Prophet, it was my father’s favourite newspaper.” 

“Ah, no surprise there then. Of course Lucius would like this shit.” 

It was crossing the line, Harry knew, but he couldn’t help himself – Malfoy still read this shitty paper that his shitty father had read so many years ago? What the hell was wrong with him?

“Don’t talk about my father that way!” 

“Then don’t talk about me that way!” 

“I’m just repeating what the papers say, Potter. And they say you’re full of shit.” 

“And it didn’t occur to you that the Prophet is wrong? They talk shit about me all the time, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy didn’t reply, instead aggressively turning the pages of the paper, although he clearly wasn’t reading it at the pace he was going. 

“They always lie about me, Malfoy. I literally can’t go a week without reading some bullshit story about me.”

“And how is that my problem?” Malfoy finally looked up, annoyed. He crumpled the newspaper between his hands and threw it, with more force than necessary, at the bin. 

Harry stood up, furious. It had been a long time since someone he cared about had believed the lies the Prophet told on a regular basis – since fifth year, in fact, when people had refused to believe Voldemort was back. It hurt more than he would have expected, not to be trusted.

“You’re acting like a child! What’s wrong with you?”

Malfoy didn’t reply, instead stalking in the kitchen area silently.

“I’m going back to my flat. You know where to find me if you feel like growing up.”

Without waiting for a reply, Harry stormed out of Malfoy’s flat, slamming the door behind him, and apparated home.


	16. We, unaccustomed to courage

Harry sat alone in his flat all Saturday evening, too numb to cry. Or perhaps he was too angry to cry, he couldn’t tell. 

He wanted to run back to Malfoy’s flat and punch him in his stupid, smug face; he wanted to apparate to the Daily Prophet offices and cause a huge fucking scene about their awful article; he wanted to find his friends and cry into their shoulders. 

How could something so wonderful have become so awful in such a short time? It was only this morning Harry had woken up in Malfoy’s bed, and now he was sitting alone in his own. Again. 

Harry would find himself getting distracted, thinking about what his next case would be, or how Ginny’s wedding planning was going, or if Neville had taken the next step with Calliope. Then he’d remember Malfoy’s mocking voice saying “You’re full of shit” and suddenly he’d be raring to go again, ready to punch through his bedroom wall. 

He wondered, vaguely and perhaps cruelly, if Malfoy would write in to his beloved paper and tell them the story of Harry’s muggle relatives – it would be the first true thing they’d ever published, Harry thought bitterly. It was admittedly an unfair thought to Malfoy, who had been his partner and perhaps friend for years, but Harry was in the mood to be unfair.

Jumping out of bed, he rooted around under his bed for some time, studiously and passionately ignoring the heavily charmed box at the back, and finally came up to breathe with a huge stack of papers, tied together with bright red string. 

Every single article about Harry that the Prophet had printed in the last five years sat in his hands. It had been a joke gift from Ginny his last birthday – they’d gotten drunk together and spent all night going through them, laughing uproariously. It had seemed much funnier back then. 

There were countless about his relationship with Ginny – “Poor Weasley shacks up with arrogant Potter”, “Potter cheats his girl and his best friend” (a photo of him and Hermione), “The Boy Who Lived can’t love” (after their break up).

Then there were the ones about his career – “Harry Potter – addicted to the thrill of the kill?” “Potter – a boy in a man’s world” (when he joined the Aurors), “Chosen One – not chosen?” (This one came after Ron’s promotion, which Harry himself had suggested). 

And there were countless others, which called him arrogant and stupid and cruel, which said he hadn’t been a hero after all, just lucky. 

Has Malfoy read all of these? Harry thought.

If he was braver he’d go and confront Malfoy, but he didn’t think he could bear the thought of Malfoy saying he believed everything he’d read, that he thought Harry was a coward and a cheat. And if he was braver even still, he’d go and apologise, try to make up, tell Malfoy they could work it out. 

But Harry wasn’t a brave man anymore, not when it came to this – he could and would throw himself head first into a fight without a second thought, but he couldn’t listen to his own heart.

And so he sat, alone, throughout the night, silent and still until he fell asleep. And in another flat, another lonely man sat, wishing he were braver, wishing he were stronger, wishing he were a better man. 

***

When Harry woke, he was still dressed in his clothes from yesterday, surrounded by piles of newspapers and red string. He didn’t have the energy to tidy up or shower, and certainly not to cook, and so he sat on his sofa, mindlessly watching a cooking show on his TV. 

He was very adamantly ignoring any thoughts of Malfoy, which were alternating between remembering how it had felt to kiss him just yesterday, and how it had felt watching Hermione punch him so many years ago. 

It’s bloody inconvenient, he thought, that the one person I actually have romantic feelings for is the most fucking annoying man in the world. 

He wasn’t doing a very good job of not thinking about Malfoy. 

***

There was a knock at the front door. Harry, who’d been half asleep, shook himself awake. None of his spells had triggered, so it wasn’t a reporter or a muggle – must be a friend, then. Most likely Neville, or perhaps Ginny. He found himself hoping it was Malfoy, and then hoping it wasn’t. 

He swung open the door. The first thing he noticed, looking through the window, was that it was dark outside – what the hell had he done all day? The second thing he noticed was Malfoy, stood a few feet away from the door, leaning back against the wall opposite his door. He looked impossibly casual and relaxed, although his face was paler than usual.

Harry’s fist twitched, like he wanted to hit him, but he refrained, possibly because he was also debating throwing himself forward to kiss him.

Harry didn’t say anything – it was Malfoy’s turn to start whatever difficult conversation was about to be had. There was a long silence – Harry refused to speak first, and it seemed Malfoy had come only to stare at him sullenly from several feet away, so Harry started to close the door. 

“Wait.” 

Harry waited.

“I read the Daily Prophet because it’s the closest I’ll ever get to my father again.”

Harry wanted to interrupt, to say he didn’t give a shit, or that he was sorry for bringing up his father yesterday, but Malfoy held up his hand. 

“No, let me finish. I know the Prophet is shit, of course it is! I mean, all the times they’ve called you a coward or a cheat or a cuckold, they’re idiots. I just read it because it reminds me of before He came back, when my father was just my father and not a Death Eater.” 

“OK. I get that.” Harry said, nodding. He did get it, but he couldn’t help wondering if that was all Malfoy had come to say. 

“Can I come in?” 

Harry nodded, stepping aside so Malfoy could enter the flat. He wondered what Malfoy would think of his flat, so busy and chaotic and filled with things. 

Malfoy stood in the middle of Harry’s living room and turned to face him. 

“You were right – I was being childish. I read that article and I got all jealous and petty. You mean a lot to me, Potter, and not just because I fancy you. You’re a good man, and you’ve saved my life and trusted me with yours. I don’t know how you feel, and that scares me.” Malfoy sat down, heavily, in the seat that Harry had vacated only minutes before. He was looking down, and one of his hands was rubbing against the part of his arm that Harry knew was Fenrir’s bite. 

“This is very new to me, letting someone in that doesn’t already know my baggage, wasn’t living through it with me. I know I’m not doing it right, but I want to.” 

Malfoy looked up at Harry, who still hadn’t moved from his place the door. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry I said those things, I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.” 

Harry could have been blown over by a stiff breeze – he could count the number of times Malfoy had apologised to him on the fingers of one hand, and none had been said as passionately as this. And on top of that, what he’d said, or at least suggested, about his feelings for Harry…it was a lot to take in. 

“This is all new to me, too.” 

It wasn’t the best response to the heartfelt apology Malfoy had given him, but it was the best he could do in that moment. 

“I don’t let anyone in. All my friends are people I met when I was eleven, when everything was new and shiny and exciting. I’m terrified to let anyone in in case they’ll see how broken I am.” 

Harry didn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t as eloquent as Malfoy, and he didn’t know how to say what he felt. He wasn’t angry anymore, obviously, but he felt dangerously close to saying something he would regret. 

“But I want to let you in, Draco.” Malfoy had been looking at his hands, but at that he glanced up, eyes wide. Harry continued. “I’m sorry, too. What I said about your father was cruel, and what you said to me was cruel. But I want to move past that.” 

Harry took a deep breath, fortified his soul, drawing deep for courage. He moved, finally, towards Malfoy, knelt on the floor at his feet, looking up at him. 

“Malfoy, in all seriousness here…” He paused. “I fancy you too.” 

Malfoy laughed, a quick burst of noise, and his whole body relaxed. Harry smiled up at him, glad that he’d cut the tension and told the truth at the same time. 

Malfoy leaned down, kissed him, gently. Their kisses before had been heated and intense, but this kiss was softer spoken – it was more honest, more brave. 

This kiss, Harry knew, was the kiss that would lead to sex – he hadn’t been ready before, but he was ready now. He wanted it, and he wanted it with Draco Malfoy.


	17. Soul meets soul on lovers' lips

This time Harry woke in his own bed, and Malfoy was still lying there beside him, sleeping softly. Harry smiled and moved to kiss him gently on the forehead before getting out of bed to shower. 

Last night had been the best night of his life (although Harry recognised that thought as a bit a cliché) – Malfoy had been gentle and kind and patient, and Harry had been unafraid, instead feeling the passion and intimacy of the act. 

When Harry was finished with the shower he found that Malfoy had woken up. Remembering Malfoy’s fondness for early rising, Harry joined him in the kitchen. He was a little nervous for the conversation he wanted to start, but he thought it would be best to get it over with. 

Malfoy stood making pancakes in only a pair of trackies, and Harry felt his heart stop for a moment. Blushing, trying to get himself together before Malfoy noticed, Harry sat at the table. 

“Potter, I don’t know how you manage to do anything in this kitchen, it’s terribly crowded.” 

“I like to collect things.” Harry said, embarrassed. He looked around at all the cooking books and different spices in pots, all the random souvenirs that overflowed from his living room. “Sorry it’s a mess.” 

“Don’t be sorry. It feels more homely than my flat does, but I don’t see why you can’t keep it tidy.” Malfoy was smiling (he clearly wasn’t trying to be offensive) and so Harry smiled too.

“Malfoy, are we…” he paused. Malfoy continued making pancakes, twisting his wand in circles above the pan. “Are we dating now?” 

“I certainly hope so after last night.”

“So you’re my boyfriend?” 

“Yes, Potter, we’re boyfriends, partners, gay lovers. Pancake?” Malfoy flipped a pancake onto a plate and pushed it towards Harry, who was grinning widely. 

“I’ve never had a boyfriend before.” 

“Nor have I, Potter. Are you going to eat that pancake?”

Harry did as he was told, unoffended by Malfoy’s sarcasm – it was part of the reason Harry liked him, after all. The sarcasm had made Harry’s questions more light-hearted – an honest but easy conversation. 

Talk then turned to Pansy and Blaise, who were on their honeymoon somewhere in Africa – somewhere they wouldn’t be sent for work, so it would remain a special, cherished place for them. Harry in turn told Malfoy about Ginny and Luna’s wedding planning – it was sure to be a wonderfully wacky event, judging by some of the hints Luna had given.

“It’s in about six months away.” Harry said. “Want to be my date?” 

“Obviously, Potter. But I’ll have to teach you how to dance – I’m not being seen anywhere near your horrible dance moves.”

“Oi!” Harry laughed. “My moves are brilliant, thank you very much.” 

He jumped out of his chair, waving a hand at his radio so a cheerful disco tune came on. He started to bop around the room, limbs flailing everywhere. He was, normally, not a terrible dancer, but he was enjoying pretending in front of Malfoy, who looked mildly horrified at Harry’s lack of coordination. 

“C’mon, Malfoy, let loose a little.” 

He held out a hand to Malfoy, who grudgingly took it, standing up awkwardly. Harry grabbed his other hand and started dancing about wildly, forcing him to move along or fall over. After a few moments, Malfoy started to smile, and then full on grin as he started to dance in time with the music. 

The two men whirled chaotically around Harry’s kitchen for several minutes, until the song changed to a slower, softer tune – a ballad. Harry made to let go and step back, but instead Malfoy pulled him closer, looped his arms around Harry. They swayed side to side, Malfoy’s chin resting on Harry’s unruly hair. 

“Shit!” Harry swore, pulling back. “We’re late for work!” 

“No, we’re not. I wrote to Savage and told her we’d be taking the day to meet with the Northumberland pack for a mission debrief. She wasn’t best pleased but I highly doubt she’ll take the time to check.”

“You are a genius.” Harry said, amazed, as he leant back into Malfoy, returning to the swaying. 

“I know.” Malfoy replied smugly, laughing a little as Harry slapped the back of his head lightly in response. 

“What do you want to do today? We can do anything.”

Malfoy thought for a moment. 

“I want to go to muggle London.”

“OK. We can go to a park? Also, Hermione invited us to dinner tonight, if you want to go?”

Malfoy agreed, but said he had to return home to change clothes before they could leave for the park. 

“Try to look casual, Malfoy – we’re not going on a catwalk.” Harry called out as Malfoy left, laughing at his mock offended face as he stepped through the fireplace. 

***

Harry and Malfoy held hands as they walked through the park; they talked about nothing in particular, enjoying what was technically their first date. 

The sun was shining, although it wasn’t very warm, and the leaves on the trees were just starting to redden. 

“This is my favourite time of year.” Malfoy said, smiling as he ran his fingers across a tree trunk. 

“Mine, too. Reminds me of going back to Hogwarts.” 

Malfoy looked briefly surprised, and then he nodded. 

“Exactly. My time at Hogwarts wasn’t brilliant but at least I wasn’t at home.” 

“Yeah, I would probably have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been involved with some sort of disaster every year.” 

“You’re always getting yourself into trouble. I don’t know how you do it, Potter.” 

“I’m the only one stupid enough to ignore Hermione’s advice, that’s what it is.” 

Malfoy laughed out loud at that. 

“I ignore Pansy’s advice, so that probably makes us about even.” 

“That reminds me – after her wedding, she accidentally let slip that you talk about me to her.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. 

“She didn’t let that slip, she’s been threatening to tell you for ages.” 

“I didn’t know that.” Harry blushed, but Malfoy looked unflappable as he explained. 

“No point in keeping it a secret now, is there? I’ve fancied you for ages.” 

Harry blushed further, so distracted he almost walked into a tree.

“When did you first realise you liked me?” Harry asked, wondering privately when he’d first started to like Malfoy, even though he hadn’t realised it. 

“Hmm, probably about a year and a half ago – you got injured when we stopped that Gringotts bank robbery. I was so worried about you and couldn’t work it out until Pansy told me why.” 

Harry laughed. 

“Ron told me on Friday night how I felt, I’m glad I’m not the only one who had to be told!” 

“Only on Friday?” 

Malfoy didn’t sound upset, he seemed amused. 

“Yeah, I can’t believe I didn’t see it until then. I’ve probably liked you for months, though.” 

Harry thought back to a case about six months ago, when a young French witch had made multiple obvious passes at Malfoy, and coincidentally Harry had instantly hated her. 

“Actually, I reckon it was that kidnapping case in Wales – I hated that French witch so much for no reason.” 

“Ah, yes, Claudia. God, she was a bitch.” 

Delighted, Harry pulled Malfoy in for a kiss.

“Why the hell did we wait so long to do this? 

“Because we don’t listen to Hermione or Pansy, obviously.”

“That figures.”

***

“Potter, I don’t think I can do this.” 

“What? Malfoy, of course you can.”

“But what if they don’t like me?” 

“Are you stupid? They’ve already met you, idiot, and they like you.” 

“But it’s different now – I’m not just some colleague of yours, I’m your boyfriend.” 

Harry rolled his eyes and kissed his boyfriend squarely on the lips before knocking on Ron and Hermione’s front door. 

The door swung open almost immediately, and Hermione gave both men large hugs. Ron lurked in the background serving something delicious-smelling. 

“Boys, you’re late! I thought you might not be coming.” 

“Malfoy almost chickened out.” Harry smirked at Malfoy over Hermione’s shoulder as Ron started to laugh. 

“I did not!” Malfoy retorted, settling into the chair Ron gestured to, the other three following suit. 

“So, you’re finally dating, then.” 

“Hermione!” Harry said, embarrassed that she’d dived straight in, not bothering with small talk. Ron was snickering behind his forkful of food. 

“Took us long enough.” Malfoy replied. “This curry is really great, Weasley.”

“Thanks, mate.” 

The four ate at a leisurely pace, discussing everything from Hermione’s pregnancy to Ginny and Luna’s wedding. Harry had been right – Ron and Hermione did like Malfoy, and in fact liked him even more now that he and Harry were an item. 

“You seem happier.” Ron told Harry as they put away the plates, Malfoy and Hermione chatting in the living room. 

“I really am.” Harry replied, listening to Malfoy laughing next door, wondering if he’d finally gotten his great happiness.


	18. This is what it is to be happy

It was going to be a magical day. The day of Ginny and Luna’s wedding had finally arrived, and nobody knew quite what to expect – both women had been very tight-lipped about the details. Ron was Ginny’s Best Man, and Harry was Luna’s. Hermione was Maid of Honour for both, and so she had recruited Malfoy as a helping hand or, as Luna put it, Secondary Maid duties. 

Malfoy had pretended to be offended, but really he was delighted to be included in the wedding. Six months of dating Harry and he could still hardly believe he was now a part of the family.

But there was no denying it now as Molly Weasley fussed around him. Ginny had forced her brothers to keep her mum away until the start of the ceremony, and so Molly’s maternal instincts were overflowing to anybody within arms’ length. 

“Oh, Draco darling, don’t you look lovely?” She tugged him into a tight hug, ruffling his hair. “So smart, so handsome…” 

Molly looked like she was about to burst into tears, and so Harry and Ron stepped forward, carefully untangling Malfoy from her grips and leading her back to her seat at the front of the hall.

Malfoy had no time to recover, however, as Hermione immediately appeared behind him, looking ready to burst – her due date was almost upon her, but of course that didn’t slow her down. 

“Malfoy, get back in here! Luna needs your help.”

Malfoy shot Harry’s receding back with a helpless glance and followed Hermione away. Although Harry had warned him, he hadn’t believed in Ginny and Luna’s wackiness, or in Hermione’s perfectionism. She had said at least five times so far today “it has to be perfect, or you’re doing it again.” It was almost enough to drive a man mad, except how could he be mad when they loved him enough to want him there?

***

Both Ginny and Luna had wanted to walk down the aisle, and so they’d come to a typical Ginny-Luna compromise – both women would walk down the aisle to meet Ron and Harry. Hermione would accompany Ginny down one aisle, and Malfoy would lead Luna down a parallel aisle. 

The hall was bathed in silvery lights that danced across the ceiling, and pale blue streamers fluttered gently. The guests had been instructed to wear what made them feel attractive and comfortable, but somehow the result looked better than it should have – many women had chosen to wear flowing summer dresses, and the men, on the whole, wore smart trousers and a shirt. 

Luna’s dress and Ginny’s dress were made in the exact same style – long and flowing, lace and silk, with a flowing train behind. Luna’s was pale blue (“the sky in winter” Luna called it) and Ginny’s was startling silver. Harry had never been so proud and full of love for his friends. 

***

The ceremony was beautiful – Luna had sung her vows, which had been both hysterical and hauntingly beautiful, and Ginny’s vows had been so touching and honest. There had been several mentions of nonsensical creatures, of course (Hermione had barely contained her objections) and there was a wild moment where fireworks went off too early, causing quite a scare, but those moments of madness only served to make the event better. 

Then Ron and Harry had given speeches. Ron’s had been, typically, full of jokes and stories, but there was no denying the strength of his emotion. Harry, who was a more nervous public speaker, chose not to say too much, but instead read out a beautiful poem about love and marriage (Malfoy had helped him choose it). 

Harry had noticed Malfoy and Hermione whispering during his speech, and passing something between the two of them, but before he’d been able to ask either of them about it, Ron had whisked him off to talk to his parents.

Luna and Ginny were now twirling around the dancefloor, narrowly missing the other dancing couples – Ron and Hermione were wisely sticking in one corner, swaying. His large hands were placed protectively on her belly, and both were smiling widely. 

Neville and Calliope were also on the dancefloor, trying to imitate Dean and Seamus’s bizarre chicken dance. Everyone in the vicinity could hardly control their laughter at the sight of four adults clucking like chicken. 

Harry had danced for a little while, with Hermione and then with Pansy, but Pansy had quickly tired, saying she would sit down a while, and perhaps Harry should wait for Malfoy. She’d winked when she said it, and Harry wondered at what it meant, but he did as he was told, happy to watch his friends dancing.

“Not dancing?” 

“Just waiting for the right partner.” Harry smiled back at Malfoy, who held out his hand. Harry took it, but Malfoy didn’t lead him anywhere. Instead, they embraced where they stood, swaying in time to the music. 

“It’s been great, hasn’t it?” Harry, eloquent as ever, looked up at Malfoy.

“I’m so glad Luna and Ginny wanted me in their wedding.”

“Of course they did, idiot, you’re one of us.” 

“Merlin, I love you.” 

“I love you too.”

They swayed in silence for some time, peaceful and happy, until Luna appeared beside them. 

“How did it go, Draco?”

Malfoy shook his head frantically at Luna, who simply smiled and bounced off to join Neville on the dancefloor.

“What was that about?” 

“Nothing important.” Malfoy replied, shrugging as he pulled Harry back towards him, into his arms. 

“Harry, I have something I need to say. Please just hear me out.” 

Worried, Harry drew back, but Malfoy didn’t look upset – he looked nervous, perhaps. 

“I love you, Harry. I know we haven’t been dating for very long, but we’ve been a big part of each other’s lives for such a long time, and I can’t imagine my life without you anymore.” Malfoy babbled. “You mean so much to me, and you’ve made me a better man.” 

Without waiting for Harry to respond, Malfoy knelt on the ground, pulling out a small velvet ring box from his pocket. 

“Harry Potter, will you do me the honour of marrying me?” 

Harry gasped. He’d never have guessed that this was coming, but he couldn’t be happier that it had. He stared at Malfoy for several long seconds, unable to voice his delight. 

“I’ll need an answer at some point, but no rush, Potter.” Malfoy added sarcastically, but the smile on his face told Harry he wasn’t worried – Harry’s larger than life grin had to be a dead giveaway of what his answer would be.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you, Draco Malfoy.”

Malfoy made to stand up, but Harry held out his hand. 

“My turn to talk, sorry!” He joked. “I love you too, Malfoy. You’ve changed my life for the better in so many ways, and these six months have been the best of my life. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Malfoy stood and kissed Harry, a heated, passionate kiss that almost knocked Harry off his feet. Harry was vaguely aware of clapping and cheering, but all he could think of was Malfoy in his arms and the ring on his finger. This was his great happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying the story! One more chapter to go :) Leave a comment and let me know what you liked. And feel free to ask for one-shot ideas, I'd love to give them a go


	19. Epilogue

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me!” Harry shouted through the door. “Malfoy, you’re a dickhead!” 

There was no answer. Harry banged his fist on the door, shouting out several choice swearwords. After a short moment, the door opened up so suddenly Harry almost fell into the bathroom. 

“Jesus, Potter, calm down. If you wanted a shower you should have gotten up earlier.” 

“Not my fault you take hours to get ready.” Harry snapped.

“Not my fault you still haven’t learnt that after three years of marriage.” Malfoy replied, one arm resting on the doorframe, and leaned in to kiss Harry on his pouted lips. 

Harry relented, wrapping his arms around his husband, but Malfoy pulled back. 

“Hey, hey, don’t ruin my hair. It took more than an hour to look this perfect, you know.”

Harry rolled his eyes and ducked under Malfoy’s arm, trying to contain his smile. 

“We’re going to be late, Potter.” 

“I’m not going without having a shower.” Harry stripped off his t-shirt and boxers and stepped into the shower defiantly. 

“Well, you can explain to Granger and Weasley why we’re late for Roseanne’s birthday.” 

Harry didn’t reply, instead choosing to blast Malfoy with the shower head, already laughing even before Malfoy let out a shriek of horror. 

Malfoy deliberated for a second, thinking whether to charm himself dry and leave the bathroom. He took a glance at Harry, naked and smiling in the shower, and instead stripped off and stepped into the water. 

“You’re ridiculous.” He told Harry, but he was smiling too. “Also, if we’re late for the party, I’m going to let Granger castrate you.”

Harry laughed merrily. 

***

They were late to the party, by a solid hour, but before Hermione could even make her trademark face of disappointment and disapproval, Harry waved a large wrapped present in the air. Roseanne leaped off her chair and almost threw herself on the floor in her hurry to greet her uncles. 

Hermione’s frown faded as Roseanne opened her present – a toy broom. Ron cheered from across the room, where he was chatting to Ginny and holding his son, Harry Frederick. Ron’s cheer, however, had nothing on Roseanne’s scream of joy as she immediately jumped on it. 

“Aunty Gin! Look! I’m you!” With her shock of ginger hair and impish smile, she did in fact look like a mini Ginny, a fact that both took great pride in. 

Malfoy, smiling fondly at his niece, knelt down to adjust her grip. 

“You’ll have to hold tighter than that, Rosie bear, or you’ll fall off.” 

Keeping a firm grip on her back and the end of the broom, Malfoy swung Roseanne through the air, and she squealed with joy.

“Careful, Malfoy.” Hermione called out, unable to help herself, but she didn’t put down her plate of cake or move from her seat - the broom only flew three meters above the ground, and Roseanne was clearly having the time of her life. 

Harry joined Hermione and Luna at the table, watching his husband twirling Roseanne around in circles.

“You’re looking distracted, Harry. Are the nargles disturbing you? I can make you a tonic, if you'd like.” 

“No, Luna, don’t worry, I don’t need a tonic.” He almost retched at the thought of her anti-nargle concoctions. “I’m just thinking.” 

“You’re thinking about kids, aren’t you?” Hermione said shrewdly. 

“Yeah. I love Malfoy, and I want a family, but we’ve never talked about this. What if he doesn’t want kids?” 

“Don’t be silly, Harry. Anyone who can love someone else’s child that much definitely wants to be a father. I mean, look at him.” Luna gestured to Malfoy, who had taken over Harry Frederick duty so Ron could have two slices of cake. 

Harry nodded. 

“You’re right. I should talk to him. Right?” 

“Right.” Hermione agreed. Harry sat there, not moving. “What are you waiting for, Harry? Go on.” 

Harry got up and walked towards Malfoy, who held out Harry Two (as he was sometimes affectionately known) towards him. 

Before Harry had a chance to even think of what to say, Malfoy spoke. 

“I want kids. I want to be a father.” 

Harry stared at him in surprise. 

“That’s a relief, because I was just coming over here to tell you the same thing.” 

Malfoy laughed and kissed Harry squarely on the lips, and then kissed Harry Frederick’s forehead.

“You’re going to be an excellent father, Draco.” 

“So are you, Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the story! Leave a comment and let me know what you liked :) Feel free to ask for one-shot ideas and I'll give them a go! x


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